Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: Jumping on the advent calendar bandwagon! New Year's Eve and FINALE: Holmes was bested by another woman besides Irene Norton - Mary Watson. Prompted by MyelleWhite. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
1. Day 8: A Season for Hope

**==Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas==  
><strong>

**Introduction:**

Jumping on the bandwagon for the advent calendar—a bit late, but better late than never! Much kudos to HLotD and Spockologist for starting this! Expect fun but slightly rough reads, minimal nitpicking. Not going for masterpieces here, folks—this is purely for fun.

_Day 8 – prompt from sagredo: Write about a momentous Christmas in the life of a secondary canon character – such as the first Christmas Sir Henry spends at Baskerville hall after returning from the voyage he took to recuperate from his shattered nerves, or the first Christmas Irene Adler spends on the continent with Godfrey Norton._

**Further Note:** "My" Sir Henry is the dashing and talented Richard Greene of Basil Rathbone's HOUN. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>==Day 8: A Season for Hope==<strong>

He would never accept her, she knew. She had deceived him and hadn't possessed the moral courage to tell him the full truth before it was too late. She'd paid for it, too.

So when Sir Henry returned to Baskerville Hall two weeks before Christmas, she was not at all surprised that he made a round of seasonal calls without visiting Merripit House. Nor was she surprised that she received no invitation for the dinner to be hosted at the Hall on Christmas Eve.

It was a lonely _Navidad_ she faced this year, as she had endured last year and would likely continue to endure for the rest of her life. She'd considered leaving Dartmoor many times, but where could she go? She had no close kin still alive in Costa Rica, nor had she ever had close friends there. And what would she do if she left? Teaching was the only thing she _could_ do and the prospect did not appeal to her. With frugality, she could keep herself comfortable at Merripit House with the money she had.

She did not want to stay in Dartmoor, but she could not bring herself to leave.

These thoughts were racing through her mind for the umpteenth time when she heard a knock on the door. Odd enough that it was late in the evening, but on _Christmas Eve_, no less?

But if the knock was startling, the visitor was even more so. He was thinner than she recalled, paler… but at the same time more erect, nobler even than before. His face creased into an uncertain smile as she opened the door.

"Sir Henry," she breathed.

"Miss St—Mrs.—erm, Miss Beryl?" His smile grew lopsided with embarrassment. "Merry—ah, Happy—Christmas. May I come in?"

"Certainly," her lips replied for her while she tried to fathom exactly why the baronet would be calling upon her _now_ and on Christmas Eve, of all nights, while he was hosting a dinner. Her heartbeat quickened fractionally at the warmth in his large blue eyes.

He cast a reminiscing gaze about the sitting room as she led in him into it. "This place has hardly changed." He turned to her with a fond look that somehow managed to look more affectionate than a smile. "Neither have you."

"I hope that is not so," she said quietly.

He looked down and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'm terribly sorry I haven't called upon you sooner. It has been a busy two weeks…"

"Yes, I know. Haven't you a dinner to be hosting?" She froze, startled at the bitterness in her voice. Why had she lashed out at him like that, of all people?

"I do," he murmured. "I did purposefully leave you out of my invitations, Miss Beryl."

She frowned, more curious than affronted. "Yes?"

"I wished our first meeting to be more private. I've a question to ask you, if I may."

Surely he must hear her heart pounding! "Please do."

Slowly, tenderly, he took her hand in his. "Then let me be plain about it," he said quietly. "There was once a connection between us. Whatever else was wrong with our world, the fact is that I loved you and that I love you still."

She stared at him, her heart leaping for joy at what her mind told her could not be true.

"I love you, Beryl," he repeated, his honest face as earnest as she'd ever seen it. "I love you."

She shook her head and stepped back. "I wronged you. I knew… I _knew_ what my husband intended for you, and, God forgive me, I was too selfish."

"You were afraid," he protested

"My fear was selfish," she said firmly, removing her hand from his. "If I had truly loved you, I would have warned you sooner and more fully. I should have told you all."

"Then you _did_ love me."

"Sir Henry, please." Why did he have to make this difficult for her? She had no right to be in his life, not when she'd endangered it by her silence.

She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but it would not be right.

"I forgive you, Beryl," he said gently. "What is it that the Bible says? Love keeps no record of wrongdoings? Beryl, I keep no record of yours."

"Then you have a purer heart than I," she murmured as she looked down, unable to hold his intense gaze.

"I see. You cannot forgive yourself." He sighed. "Very well, then. I can wait for you to be able to forgive yourself. And I warn you, I can be a very patient man."

She felt color rise to her cheeks.

He bent over her hand and kissed it. "May you have a happy Christmas, Miss Beryl."

"And you." She meant it with all her heart.

She risked a glance up and saw him grin. "Thank you. Never mind, I can see myself out." He nodded respectfully and, half a minute later, she heard the front door open and close. She sank onto the settee, sobs hitching in her throat. She was unsure why she cried—joy, despair, self-recrimination, and hope vied for dominance.

But when she awoke the next morning, it was the first time in a very long time that she looked forward to the new day.

She allowed herself to hope that, someday, she would be able to forgive herself.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I've wanted to do this for a long time—write a story in which Sir Henry and Beryl are reconciled to each other. Yes, I'm a hopeless romantic. But in the interests of being realistic and not going for a long masterpiece, I did not go right out for the mistletoe. That will take time in their lives. It seemed to me that Sir Henry might be able to forgive Beryl, but maybe she would not be able to extend the courtesy to herself. I have to kind of smile when I read about her or the deranged wife in THOR—I'm part South American-Spanish, and I can understand that whole "woman of Spanish blood" thing. =)

Well, so here we are—romance and Christmas. And I actually managed to get it done in one day. Woo-hoo! Onto the next prompt!

_**Reviews and Gingerbread are Welcome!**_


	2. Day 9: Highly Inconvenient

_Day 9 – prompt from Agatha Doyle: What would it be like if Holmes and Watson were vampires?_

**Note:** It just _figures_ that I'd get this prompt. I've never read one bit of vampire fiction IN MY LIFE. Nor do I care to do so. Weeell… *steeples fingers to cover sly look* this should be very… _interesting_…

WARNING: CRACK AHEAD.

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><p><strong>==Day 9: Highly Inconvenient==<strong>

"Watson…"

"Do not even _consider_ it, Holmes."

"But…"

"No."

"I could simply—"

"_No_."

"You _must_ be having the same problem! It is entirely impossible that you should not!"

"I am not going to bloody drink the blood of another human being, no matter how bloody powerful the urge becomes!"

"…mayn't I just feed on a criminal?"

"_No_, Holmes."

"Not even an _important_ criminal?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake…"

"Moriarty! Couldn't I go feed on him? …Watson? Watson, why are you knocking your head against your desk?"

"Sherlock Holmes! Consider what you are _saying_! Are you telling me that you want to drink the _blood_ _of Professor James Moriarty?_"

"Ohhh. On second thought, no, I don't believe so."

"Thank goodness for that!"

"But I'm _hungry_, Watson!"

"Ohhh, for heaven's… _Blast_ that idiot vampire who thought it would be amusing to convert us."

"There must be _some_ way out of this…"

"Perhaps we should tell Mycroft."

"WHAT? No! Watson, are you daft, man? I'd never hear the end of it!"

"Very well. Perhaps we _should_ go to the Professor—he might have an idea or two…"

"Capital. Let's go."

"…I beg your pardon?"

"My dear Watson, I would much rather go crawling in on my hands and knees to my arch-nemesis than face _my brother_ with my newfound vampirism. You have quite obviously never seen an enraged Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, Holmes, _really_."

"Watson, vampires, werewolves, and criminal masterminds have _absolutely_ _nothing_ upon an enraged Mycroft Tristan Holmes. Shall we go?"

"Lord, give me strength."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Somebody is more than welcome to take up this silliness and continue it. There's a possibility that I _could_ have done serious/angsty fic for this prompt, but the comic approach occurred to me instantly and held far greater appeal.

And poor Holmes. *tries to hold back smile* Can't be easy, wanting to feed and not being morally able to do so.

_**Reviews and Gingerbread are Welcome!**_


	3. Day 10: The Other Side

_Day 10 – prompt from Deb Zorski: snow._

**Note:** Wow, first I was going to do something else, and then I thought of something _totally_ different and decided to fly with that! Oh, and this is so _not_ crack. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>==Day 10: The Other Side==<strong>

Nine-year-old Sherlock Holmes did not know where he was, but he did know two things. One: he had lived in Rosewood Hall all his life, and he had never seen this wardrobe before. Two: it was summertime right now, and yet…

Yet, he had walked right through the wardrobe as one would walk through a door, and it was snowing on the other side. Not only that, but these woods were not the woods of the Holmes' estate. Whereas the estate possessed mostly leafy trees, the majority of _these_ trees were clearly evergreen.

And it was _snowing_.

Sherlock took one step out onto the white ground, then stopped and looked up at the silver sky. Turned to look over his shoulder, saw the spare room beyond the proper door of the wardrobe. Mycroft would have stopped right there, turned fully round, gone back. Mycroft would have approached the thing with detached, scientific interest.

Sherlock was not Mycroft.

He stepped fully out into the winter landscape. A delighted grin spread across his small face—it was _lovely_ here. He cupped his bare hands together and watched as one detailed snowflake after another landed on his tanned skin and seeped into it.

He broke into a run on the path that seemed to lead from the wardrobe. The snow was powdery and flew each time his feet pounded against the earth. He laughed for the sheer joy of it all. Then he saw something which truly made his breath catch.

His wandering gaze caught the roots, first. They looked like a tree's roots, but they were unmistakably _iron_. His eyes were drawn upward, along the stem that was unquestionably the stem of a lamppost, 'til they reached the gas lamp atop the… stem, trunk, pole? As insane as he knew it sounded, it was a lamppost grown from the ground. He had no idea how such a thing could be, but he could not deny the reality his eyes saw.

Inexplicably, the sight was welcoming, calming, comforting. The flame burned bright, a warm glow in a beautiful but cold forest.

Sherlock had no idea where he was. His first supposition was somewhere on the Continent—the place reminded him of photographs he'd seen—but how on earth could he have crossed over from England to the Continent in such a fashion? He might as well have been transported to another world.

And that truly set his mind working. What if he _had_ been transported to another world? What if magic _did_ exist, despite what Mycroft said about it? And why would _he_, Sherlock Edward Holmes, be sent to another world, and how, how, _how_?

He pressed his fingertips to his lips in contemplation as he leaned against the lamppost. It was the matter of a few seconds. He wanted to explore this fascinating new land, wherever it was and whatever happened to him for it. He smiled as he recalled a line from Shakespeare:

_The game's afoot!_

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

If you don't recognize _this_, one of the most famous scenes in _literature_… oh, for shame! =) Why my mind decided to land Sherlock in Narnia, I have _no_ idea, but I like it. Maybe because I was reading the movie guide for _Wardrobe_ recently? *shrugs* I was going to write something about my personal-canon daughter for Watson, Helen, but then an image entered my head, attached to the word "snow": a little boy in a snowy wood, looking up at a lamppost. ^_^

Now, technically, Narnia wasn't even created until "Sherlock Holmes was still living in Baker Street," according to _The Magician's Nephew_ (and I will forever love C. S. Lewis for putting that in). But, then again, Narnian time is not entirely linear with our own (one generation visited Narnia in about one Earth decade, but over twelve hundred Narnian years). *grins and shrugs*

Oh yeah, and I love, love, _love_ writing Sherlock Holmes as a boy. He's so much fun, and he's so sweet, too! I can really see him with the kind of innocence and love of life that makes Lucy Pevensie the heroine of _Wardrobe_ and _Dawn Treader_.

Welp, see you folks Monday! _**Don't forget to send reviews and gingerbread men!**_


	4. Day 11: Not a Stranger

_Day 11 – prompt from Sui Generis Paroxysm: Graveyard picnic._

**Note:** *blinks* D'you think some of us went all-out-random here? Seriously? (Not me—now I'm wishing I had…) Anyhoo, I decided to do another child!fic and include a character who, up 'til now, has known life only in an e-book. Really excited about this!

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><p><strong>==Day 11: Not a Stranger==<strong>

The twelve-year-old halted and stared at his friend. "Breandán, it's a graveyard."

"I can see that, Sherlock."

"It's a _graveyard_, Brean."

"Is there something wrong with eating lunch in a graveyard?"

Sherlock continued to stare at the gypsy boy. "Graveyards, by definition, Brean, are yards—to whit, open green spaces—full of _graves_, which inter _dead people_."

Breandán Delaney's emerald-green eyes blinked placidly. "Aye. Now, are we going to eat?"

"But—but…" For one of the few times in his young life, Sherlock Edward Holmes was struck near-speechless.

"Ach, I forgot—you English think it's disrespectful. Lor' A'mighty, Sherlock, when my clan reaches London, we _live_ in our old graveyard for a week while we clean the whole lot up."

Sherlock's eyes went round. "But…"

A mischievous and very Gaelic fire lit in the green eyes. "Ah, I see how it is. You're a-feared to be in the graveyard, aren't you?"

Sherlock felt his face flush. "I am not!"

"Well, then…" The Irish boy gestured him forward with a flourish.

"Fool Tinkers," the English boy muttered as he stomped after his friend. In spite of himself, his gaze roamed the tombstones, taking in everything. Even when he was irritated, his brain just did not _stop_, and, sometimes, that was a bit difficult to live with. "I think some of my people are buried here," he said in a tone respectful to the dead but loud enough for Breandán to hear.

"I thought they were all't that private cemetery at Rosewood Hall."

Sherlock pointed to a grave marker that read simply _Emily Love, October 19__th__, 1817—March 30__th__, 1819_. "I believe I recall hearing the name _Love_ somewhere in the family genealogy."

"Ah."

"…she died so young."

"That happens, Sherlock," Breandán said gently.

Sherlock shook himself out of his slightly mournful thoughts. "I am sorry, Breandán—I was not thinking about—"

Breandán shook his head. "It _happens_, Sherlock. Tears can't bring them back." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

Sherlock could not help but thinking of his sister, the baby that had been stillborn when he was little. "No… but I think… I think it's not a _bad_ thing to cry. Not always. I think that… I think that we need to be _able_ to cry." He glanced up at Breandán, who frowned contemplatively. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I think so," Breandán nodded. "I think I do." Silence fell over them, not at all awkward or even sad. "Well," the Irish boy said at last, "we'd best eat up. Don't forget I've got t' be with m'da this afternoon."

"Of course." Sherlock took one last look at the marker of the baby girl—was she a distant cousin? no relation at all?—before joining Breandán on the warm grass. Oddly, he no longer felt a sense of trespass, but one of… acceptance.

These were his people, by ties of blood or land, and he was theirs.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

That… I absolutely did not expect that. I was aiming for something cute and funny… instead, I got something cute and serious. That was lovely.

I know—you all thought it was going to be Holmes dragging Watson along and plopping him down in a cemetery for lunch, or maybe a stakeout with victuals provided. Yep, too obvious. I saw the prompt and actually thought of Aragonite's Irish Tinker clan, the Dooleys, friends of Inspector Lestrade. In _A Fanged and Bitter Thing_, Lestrade takes Watson to visit the Dooleys in their lot of a London graveyard, and that was always one of the scenes of the _A Sword for Defense_ series that stuck with me.

In the e-book version of _At the Mercy of the Mind_, I introduced one of my original characters for Sherlock's back-story, Breandán Delaney. Breandán is the son of an Irish Tinker clan chief, and he's Sherlock's best friend growing up. If you want to see more of him, fear not! you shall!

Anyway, I had the thought that maybe it would be _Breandán_ who would be dragging _Sherlock_ into the graveyard, and I ran with it. This was the result. After all, we know that Sherlock Holmes delights in the odd, but he had to have practiced some when he was a kid. =)

_**I'll take candy canes with those reviews! =D**_


	5. Day 12: The Gift

_Day 12 – prompt from HLotD: On a case Watson's revolver breaks because it is too old. Holmes  
>gets him a new one for Christmas.<em>

**Note:** F-L-U-F-F. =) Don't forget to read Day 11 if you haven't yet!

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><p><strong>==Day 12: The Gift==<strong>

_Holmes watched as Watson turned the pieces over in his gloved palm, his eyes brown and sad in the November murk. "It is not salvageable?" Holmes ventured tentatively._

_Watson sighed. "It is, but it would be less expensive—and more practical—simply to buy a new revolver. This _is_ nearly two decades old, after all." He paused._

"_But?" he prompted gently._

_The Doctor shook his head. "With first the move and the wedding and now the baby on the way… I simply can't afford it right now." His military posture drooped marginally, but very few things made John Hamish Watson droop that much._

_Holmes understood his friend's sorrow—Watson's Adams had been an extension of his hand for over nineteen years. It had seen as much service as any army revolver still in service of Queen and country, and the irony of it was that it had probably seen more—Watson's particular Adams had been replaced in the army years ago._

"_Here." Holmes passed his own revolver to his friend, flashing him a quicksilver smile. "You can use this at present—you know you shall use it more than I."_

_Watson accepted the gun with an exasperated smile. "Yeees, well…" He cleared his throat. "Thanks, old fellow."_

Holmes twitched in his seat as Watson reached under the tree for the last present and tore open the wrapping. Eileen Watson caught Holmes's fidgeting and visibly suppressed a smile, then turned back to her husband as his breath caught. "Oh, _Holmes_…"

"It is the correct make?" Holmes said anxiously, taking in Watson's stunned expression. "I was not quite certain…"

Watson shook his head, smiling that smile that said he was close to tears and laughter both. "It is perfect, Holmes, truly." He lifted the revolver and peered at the inscription, a simple _S.E.H. to J.H.W., Christmas 1899_. "My dear fellow—" his voice was thick, and when he raised his head, his eyes were glistening—"_thank you_."

Holmes squirmed slightly. He and Watson had been exchanging gifts for many years, and he had not yet grown accustomed to all the emotion that could sometimes be involved. "You are most welcome, my good Watson." He caught Eileen's twinkling green gaze and took encouragement from it—John Watson really was a fortunate man to have gotten a second match made in heaven. "After all, I can't have my bodyguard forever without his own weapon, can I?"

Eileen laughed, and Watson shook his head, his broad shoulders shaking. "No, I don't suppose you can."

Holmes settled back into his chair and sighed in contentment, equilibrium restored. "Merry Christmas, Watson."

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I don't know—that almost felt generic to me. Would probably have been _completely_ generic if not for Eileen, so thank goodness for her. Oh, and to AMM readers—yes, the baby-on-the-way is indeed Helen Watson.

Anyway, I've heard both sides of the Webley/Adams debate for Watson's revolver—I just decided to go with the Adams. According to _The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes_ (thank you, library!), it's one of the likelier candidates.

_**Reviews and candy canes, pretty please!**_


	6. Day 13: WANTED: a Friend

_Day 13 – prompt from mrspencil: the advert Holmes might have put in the paper when searching  
>for a flat mate.<em>

**Note:** This made me think of an awesomely cute Photoshop job I saw once, with Martin Freeman as Bilbo Baggins, reading a long piece of paper—and on the other side of the pic was the text he was reading. It was an advert put out by Smaug (_winkwink_) in search of a small roommate. (For those of you who are BBC _Sherlock_ illiterate, Benedict Cumberbatch ((Sherlock)) and Martin Freeman ((John)) are playing Smaug the Dragon and Bilbo Baggins, respectively, in the upcoming _Hobbit_ films.)

**Further Note:** I don't read newspapers, so I hope I get this right.

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><p><strong>==Day 13: WANTED: A Friend==<strong>

_WANTED:_

_Lodger to split rent for comfortable, middle-class flat. Male, please, preferably twenties or thirties. Must be of quiet habits and sturdy, reliable disposition, not easily alarmed by potentially disastrous happenings. Apply to Mr. S. Holmes at 58 Montague St._

He put down the old newspaper with a grin. "Potentially disastrous happenings," indeed—they'd had no end of those ever since that first case a year ago. Good lord, had it been only a year?

It felt as if they'd been sharing rooms together forever, and that was by no means an unpleasant sensation. He could not imagine his life without the remarkable man he felt privileged to call "friend." His grin faded as he wondered if he truly met the criteria Holmes had in mind when they'd met.

"Watson, why are you standing around?" Holmes cried sing-song as he whirled into the sitting room just then. "There is a performance of Tchaikovsky at the Royal Albert Hall tonight, and, by George, we shall not miss it!"

Watson set the paper down on the desk and smiled at his friend's infectious enthusiasm. "Very well, then, Holmes."

"By the pensive expression I observed upon your face as I entered, I deduce that whatever has you down is in the text of that yellowed specimen of the press, my boy," Holmes said cheerily. "Come now, what is it?"

Caught now, Watson handed the paper with its circled content over to the younger man. "I found it when I was organizing the papers you so kindly left strewn about the sitting room," he said pointedly. As usual, all arrows bounced off the armor that was Sherlock Holmes's indifference to anything and everything that did not fall under the category of "current most important priority."

Holmes's grin widened, and he laughed. "So much for that, eh?" he said, referencing the advertisement rather than his earlier mess. "I did not receive a single application until Stamford introduced us."

"Fortunately for me." Watson could not fathom the tinge of bitterness his voice held.

Holmes's eyebrows drew together. "Fortunately for us both," he corrected. "Watson, do you… do you think me not fully satisfied with you as a fellow lodger?"

There was nothing for it now: he had to reveal his insecurities whether he liked it or not. "Well, I would not quite say that I have 'quiet habits'… or a quiet temper, for that matter."

Holmes threw down the paper with an exasperated huff. "My dear fellow, I do _not_ make such decisions as a choice in flat mates lightly. I was perfectly satisfied to go halves with you, and I remain satisfied. You must think very little of me, indeed, to think for one moment that a slight upon your character would not reflect upon me."

Watson watched him in astonishment. Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to befriend, by all accounts, and yet Watson had never had much difficulty in getting past the barriers Holmes had erected—to the shock of many good men down at Scotland Yard. But to hear from Holmes's own lips that he not only enjoyed but _valued_ their friendship… was nothing short of a revelation.

"I… I don't know what to say," Watson admitted.

Holmes gave him a look one might give to a particularly dense brother. Watson did not know why the term "brother" entered his mind, but it did. "Say that you'll come with me tonight and leave behind forever this nonsense of being anything less than the perfect companion. Really, Watson, you do underrate yourself deplorably sometimes!"

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Thank you, Mrs. P.! That was some of the most fun I've had yet! I love it that _Holmes_ gave _Watson_ a deserved scolding for once, rather than the usual vice versa.

Also, I think that was the most Victorian _my_ Holmes has ever sounded. That was incredible. Maybe reading Aragonite lately helped. =) (Plus, I've loved to use the word "deplorably" ever since I fell in love with _The Sound of Music_ a couple of years ago.)

Sorry for the lateness of the update, but my laptop crashed yesterday afternoon and was not up and running until _this_ afternoon.

_**Reviews and candy canes, please!**_


	7. Day 14: Bereft

_Day 14 – prompt from MyelleWhite: cold._

**Note:** Tell me how I got from "cold" to "bereft." Seriously.

**To my reviewers:** You guys are fantastic. Truly, you _are_.

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><p><strong>==Day 14: Bereft==<strong>

The end of the world is cold.

The icy air penetrates your clothing, your skin, and cuts straight to the bone. You are never completely warm.

Your head throbs, less from the cold and more from the pitiless starkness surrounding you. The sunlight is intense and harsh. The blue of the sky burns into your eyes as much as does the white of the snow. If icicles were driven directly into your skull, they could inflict no greater torment than the brilliant, unforgiving day of Tibet.

Living from day to day is a never-ending exercise in endurance. You wonder how much further you can go before you simply… break.

You've broken before, or at least come near it. You've burned and bled and screamed 'til your throat went raw and your voice silent, and still you screamed. You've experienced terrors that belong to a darker, more savage time, and they live on in your dreams.

But that isn't the worst.

The worst is reliving the hour that you made the decision to _leave_. The worst is reliving _his_ cries, watching him and longing to go down to him and comfort him…

And, even in your dreams, you don't do it right. You didn't then, and you don't now.

You don't go down, you don't tell him that it's all right, all's well, you're not dead… You stay there on that ledge, _watching_ him.

You're not a brain without a heart, whatever people think, but… in just that one moment, you _might_ have been.

You're exhausted. You're tired of pain, tired of falling prey to sickness and depression, tired of cold, tired of living a lie, tired of running, tired of criminals and madmen, and you want it to _stop_. _All_ of it.

You want to go home. You want your warm hearth, your bullet-scarred wall, your chemical-stained deal table, your comfortable armchair, your full pipe rack… You want your dearest friend, want to beg him for forgiveness, want to see the baby boy that's just been born to him…

You want to go home. You want so terribly to go home.

The sun falls below the Himalayan peaks, and dusk settles upon the end of the world, bringing relief to your tortured eyes. The first stars appear in the darkling sky, one by one—and one point of light shines brighter than the rest, deep in the eastern sky. For the first time since receiving that telegram from your brother, you smile. Just a small, weary smile, but, in this moment, you feel lighter of heart.

Behold, good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

_Happy Christmas, my dear Watson_.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Ha! Wasn't _complete_ angst!

This story is largely based off of situations found in AMM, both the FFN and Kindle versions—specifically, "29. Exhaustion" and "70. Bitter." I was going to end it on a quietly desperate note as I had ended several AMM hiatus-era stories, and ended up deciding to make it Christmas.

I loved doing the second-person POV. "You" is a hard POV to do for a prolonged period of time, but it is utterly lovely in short stories (or scenes—thank you, Matthew Stover) if done right. I haven't used this POV in a long time, but it was great.

Oh, and I love the word "darkling." It's such a gorgeous word.

Okay, okay, forget the Christmas treats. _**Reviews are love!**_


	8. Day 15: A Policeman's Lot

_Day 15 – prompt from Catherine Spark: A shocking set-up that fails to emerge. E.g. Mrs Hudson gets engaged again, but the engagement is subsequently broken off / someone thinks they are pregnant but it is a false alarm, etc._

**Note:** D'oh boy…

WARNING: Some ripe language directly ahead.

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><p><strong>==Day 15: A Policeman's Lot==<strong>

Is not at all a happy one. Gilbert and Sullivan were sodding right about that.

Professional to the all-too-literal end, Lestrade did not slam the door shut as he entered his office, but he came close. Quite close. Gritting his teeth, he stomped over to the desk and started removing his personal effects, which were thankfully few.

At first, he had been in shock after being apprised of his dismissal by the Chief Inspector. After all, he had been in the Met for twenty years—who _wouldn't_ be left reeling from news like that? All because of that sodding mandrake of a viscount's son. The upper class was a plague upon the hardworking constables and detectives alike of the London Metropolitan.

But then, as the news circulated with ruthless speed through the Yard, he had caught Gregson's mixed expression of pity and relief. Yes, the very Saxon Gregson no longer had to worry that the apparently Gallic Lestrade would contest for further promotion. Lestrade woke from his shock to a righteous fury and, ignoring Bradstreet's genuine dismay (_"Geoff, please, let me talk with the Old Man"_), set off for his office with a speed that could have rivaled Sherlock Holmes's on a case, despite the little detective's bad foot.

Now, however… now, he slumped into his chair, his anger having expended itself and leaving him with no support to keep him upright. He cupped his chin in his hand and sighed. He didn't know where he'd go from here: like so many of his companions, the Yard was all he'd ever known. And yet he had to find work _somewhere_… Annie was heavily with child once again. Not to mention the fact that her language tuition was meant to support _his_ income, not to support the family itself.

He could not begin to fathom how he'd explain this to her.

His mind wandered back to the case and, inevitably, to his amateur colleague. Sherlock Holmes had supplemented his investigation every step of the way, and he was every bit as convinced of the Honourable David Fitzwilliam's guilt as Lestrade was. (An agreement betwixt him and Holmes? Great Scott, miracles _did_ happen.) Lestrade had arrested Fitzwilliam, fully aware that he was treading on thin ice.

Fitzwilliam's father had intervened.

Lestrade's career at the Yard was finished.

He rubbed at the headache forming behind his eyes—stress-induced, certainly—and sighed again. Well, he'd best complete his packing and make certain his cases and files were distributed properly—

"_Geoffrey Michael Lestrade!_"

Lestrade was on his feet in an instant, watching wide-eyed as Roger Bradstreet burst through the door. "_Good god_, man, what is wrong with you?"

"You little son of a moon curser—_you're not being dismissed!_"

"WHAT?"

Bradstreet gulped for breath before pressing on. "Holmes! It was all his bloody doing! He argued something fierce with the Old Man and threatened to _unleash his bloody Whitehall brother_ on Mitchell if he let you go!"

Lestrade dropped into his chair again, the world pulled out from beneath his feet for the second time in one afternoon. "You jest," he said faintly.

"I bloody well don't!" Bradstreet boomed. "Go see Holmes for yourself!" Without waiting for Lestrade to reply, the larger man hauled his smaller friend out of his seat by the arm and propelled him out the door.

Dr. Watson was running up to them in the hall, wearing the biggest grin Lestrade had ever seen on the young veteran's face. "Inspector! I see Bradstreet told you the news!"

Lestrade felt the color drain from his cheeks. "He didn't."

"He jolly well did!" Watson retorted happily. "Called down the wrath of God on your Chief Inspector—I don't think that I have ever seen Holmes more eloquent or more furious."

Lestrade's eyebrows hit his hairline. "I've seen him as both at once, and it is rather… unforgettable."

Watson laughed outright and clapped him on the shoulder. "Go back to your superior, Lestrade. I think you'll find him eating a large dish of humble pie, served up _a la Sherlock Holmes_."

"I should like to speak with Mr. Holmes first."

Watson's smile turned contemplative. "He left immediately for Baker Street, Lestrade. I rather think…" The Doctor left the sentence unfinished, but Lestrade could complete it in his head: _Holmes did not want gratitude_. The little detective had known the young madman longer than Watson had—he knew well how adverse Holmes was to the slightest display of thanks.

He nodded and smiled slowly at Watson. "Very well, then. Give him my thanks for me?"

Watson smiled back in understanding—sentiments that Holmes could not endure from other people, he could endure from his flat mate. "Of course. Good day to you, Lestrade, Bradstreet."

"Good day, Doctor!"

"Good day, Doctor, and thank you."

Lestrade waited until Watson's broad shoulders had disappeared in the flow of indoor traffic. Then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and set off for the Chief Inspector's office.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

At first, the prompt made me groan. What to do, what to do? But then I thought of Lestrade, and, from there, it all fell into place. FOR THE RECORD: This story takes place in 1883, the same year that Krakatoa blew. Just thought I'd mention it—for you devoted readers, you might have to recall this event in the future…

Oh, and yes, the language was a bit… spicy. Okay, so more than a bit, and definitely the most I've ever had in a one-shot. On the other hand, this _is_ Scotland Yard with emotions running high. If you don't know what "sodding" means, well… ahem, it's a very British, very underused expletive in Sherlockian fanfiction. "Mandrake"… weeell… let's just say that's referring to a man who sells out very… _physical_… services…

I'll just say that I like "sodding mandrake" much more than "son of a -." Much more colorful and perhaps even not quite so vulgar. At least, it pins the blame solely on the man rather than the man's mother, lol. Thanks muchly to Aragonite for introducing me to it via her epic _Leap Year_. (And _you_, dear reader, deserve _eggnog_ if you know what the term means. ^_^)

Also, "moon curser" is an old name for a smuggler, so called because they did _not_ appreciate the moon shining on their less-than-legal activities. Very romantic name, but absolutely true. In my universe, as in Aragonite's, Lestrade is Breton rather than French (I think it's a very plausible explanation for a working-class man bearing an anglicized French name), and his father (in my universe) was one of the many Breton smugglers. As such, Lestrade is _genetically_ Gaelic rather than Gallic, but _technically_ more Gallic than Gaelic. ^_^

It's also very true that Yarders had to walk on eggshells around their "betters." As a country squire's son and therefore gentry, Sherlock Holmes was lower in pecking order than a viscount, who was nobility, but he did have an ace he could pull if he needed to do so—Mycroft "British Government" Holmes. Sherlock also may well have had other powerful connections upon which he could call, but he would probably have saved them only as a last resort: calling a favor upon a person meant then and still means today that you can expect to have the same done of you sometime in the future. …and, you know what? I'd pay big money to watch a righteously angry 25-year-old Sherlock Holmes chew out a likely 50s-something Chief Inspector. Talk about a sight to see!

All in all, it was FANTASTIC to do a Lestrade-centric piece once more! He is such a wonderful character to work with—I _loved_ writing this! This goes right up there as one of the Most-Fun-Writing pieces for this set.

_**Please review!**_


	9. Day 16: Guardian Angel

_Day 16 – prompt from Scarper Gallywest: Jack the Ripper ripped a seam, Watson sewed it up again. Watson Sherlock never told—and yet the body's scarcely cold…_

**Note:** Had to reread this to get it right, and maybe I still don't have the prompter's understanding of the prompt. At any rate, here's something scary, violent, and very mature. After all, we're dealing with the Ripper, and he dealt with specific victims, so…

WARNING: I am giving this story an **M-rating**.

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 16: Guardian Angel==<strong>

She did not _walk_ so much as she _flitted_ from lighted window to lamppost to lighted window. No lamp could pierce far into a London Particular, but she took what help she could get. Jemima had begged her to stay the night, but Mary wanted—needed—to get home.

For Jemima's sake, she could _visit_ Whitechapel, but she drew the line at staying the night.

She picked up her old skirts as she trod through a small stream on the kerb, forcing herself not to think about _what_ she was stepping in. Whenever she came here to visit her old friend, she wore old, ragged clothes so as to blend in with the inhabitants of London's most notorious district. Were she to wear clothes marking her out as a member of the middle class, she had no doubt that she would be assaulted, whether for her money or for other things.

* * *

><p>John sighed as he clasped his Gladstone closed and turned to bid his patient farewell. There wasn't a blessed thing to be seen out the window. He loathed Particulars—the damp chill seeped past cloth and skin and settled into the damaged bones in his left shoulder and right thigh. From a purely practical standpoint, London was a foolish place for an injured war veteran to make a home, and yet, after seven years, he could not dream of leaving.<p>

He opened the door and stepped out into the atmospheric pea soup.

* * *

><p>Mary heard footsteps behind her for a mere four seconds before she was pulled back by her arm. She screamed and whirled on her attacker, her free hand reaching for the derringer John insisted she carry on her at all times. The man—he was a man, but she could tell nothing beyond that—reached for her left arm as he twisted her right one. Screaming again (<em>dear God in heaven, let someone hear!<em>), she tried to aim the gun at the man.

His hand wrapped around her left wrist, and they struggled for the derringer. Mary squeezed the trigger.

The little bullet went wide and might have struck a lamppost—she couldn't be sure. His hand constricted around her wrist, and she cried out in pain. He pulled her to him with her captive arm and, irresistibly, twisted her left arm around behind her to join the other. She screamed again as she was jerked back against him, the pain in her arms white-hot and blinding and leaving her unable to struggle.

"Now, now, my pretty," a gravelly voice whispered in her ear. "Just you relax now."

She whimpered in pain, hot tears rolling down her face.

"Ah, you are a spirited one, aren't you? Just relax, and this shall be quick."

He began to drag her away, and she found she could toss in his grip. "No! No! No! No…" But he was much stronger, and she soon felt the cold iron of a lamppost against her back as her arms were pulled around it.

"Shh, shh." She could just make out the glint of the man's teeth, feeling rather than seeing his grin as he bound her forearms roughly to the post. "I'm not worried about being overheard, mind you, thanks to this rum fog, but I don't see the sense in putting up a fuss."

"Let me go!" Mary half-screamed, half-sobbed, jerking away from her captor. "Let me go!"

"Shh, dearie, shh. None of that, now, or I shall have to be rough with you, see?"

Her arms bound securely to the post, he sidled around in front of her and put his hands on his hips, whistling in surprise. "Well, now, seems I caught me a lady." She caught the flash of his teeth again. "And here I thought I was getting me a dollymop."

"Don't, please, don't," Mary pleaded. "I can give you money—anything. Just please don't—"

But her pleas were muffled by lips forcefully covering her own, eliciting whimpers deep in her throat. Then his body was pressed up against hers once more, and what she felt sent thrills of terror through her. She writhed beneath him, but he pressed her tightly against the lamppost, his lips still locked around hers and his hands busy with her clothes.

_Father in heaven, if ever You loved me, help me now!_

* * *

><p>John was trudging a bit less than gamely through the fog when he heard a wail that stopped him and chilled him to the bone. He knew that kind of wail. Then the woman—for female the voice was—screamed.<p>

He took off running, adrenaline compensating for the debilitating ache spreading through his bad leg. He drew his revolver as the woman screamed again, and he would have sworn the voice sounded familiar. _Please, dear Lord, let me arrive on time_.

He ran straight into someone, bowling them over. The person swore and shoved him away, and John just noticed that the person, a man, was only half-clothed. He took only a split-second to see that, because his gaze was immediately drawn to the figure sagging against a lamppost, bound and even less clothed than the man, blouse, jacket, and skirt hanging in rags about her.

She looked up, and her expression of terror changed instantly to one of shocked relief. "JOHN!"

Good heavens… "_Mary!_"

With a snarl, the man at his feet leapt up and tackled him. Mary screamed again. Broader than his assailant, John stumbled but stood his ground, attempting to bring his Adams to bear. Metal gleamed dully in the lamplight, and John saw white as his bad shoulder erupted in a blaze of agony.

"JOHN!"

He squeezed the trigger, the shot shattering the air around them. The other man howled and staggered back towards Mary, the metal gleaming again. Desperate fury driving him, John leapt at the other man. Mary screamed again as they fell into the road.

They struggled for the gun, and John felt the other's finger tighten around the trigger. The revolver went off, knocking them both down again, but the shot went wide, mercifully missing not only John but Mary as well. Then the man was struggling just to get out of John's grip. Both men were strong, but both were hurt, and John felt the man break free. He staggered after the man, but he was gone, vanished into the fog that had disgorged him.

Panting, John turned to Mary… And wished fervently that he could have killed that… that monster…

A scarlet line ran from Mary's right collarbone down her upper arm. John's rugby tackle must have knocked the knife off-course, keeping it from slashing across her throat.

The Ripper.

"Mary," he pushed out in a croak as he returned to her and fished out his knife to cut her loose.

"John!" she sobbed. "Oh, thank God you were here!"

"Shh, Mary, you are going to be all right," he soothed as he worked at the ropes. "Why on earth were you here, and dressed like this?"

"F-friend," Mary choked out. "Lives here. C-clothes to k-keep me from b-being a t-target…"

John understood that much, but why the _devil_ was she out _alone_ in Whitechapel at night in the middle of a Particular? "Mary, haven't you been reading the papers? The stories about the Ripper? That he targets prostitutes in Whitechapel?" He didn't mean to sound harsh, but the aftershock of the truly sordid drama put an edge in his voice sharp enough to cut a person on.

"D-didn't th-think…" She broke down completely, and John could not fault her at all for it. He shuddered convulsively to think of what _would_ have happened had he not arrived in time. The newspapers would have had another sensational episode to report, Scotland Yard another murder on their hands, and the Ripper another tally to his bloody score. Mrs. Forrester would lost a daughter, the Forrester children not so much a governess as an older sister, and John the only woman he had ever really loved.

A terrible little part of his mind wondered if Holmes would have even cared.

_Of course, he would not have cared,_ a nasty voice hissed.

_He bloody well _would_ have, John Hamish Watson,_ retorted another voice, _and he would have because he cares about _you_, no matter what depths he sinks to_.

The last of the rope fell away, allowing Mary to sink gratefully into his embrace. "Oh, John," she sobbed.

He wrapped her shawl around her partially-exposed torso before lifting carefully her into his arms, mindful of his injured shoulder. It screamed in protest, but he ignored it, taking one step forward, then another. He knew he could ignore it only for so long—they had to get to a better part of town, and quickly.

* * *

><p>Mary felt as if she was drowning in shame. She was ashamed of her foolishness, ashamed that her fiancé had to see her exposed, ashamed that he had to rescue her at all, ashamed that she could not stop herself from weeping like a little girl. And yet…<p>

And yet she saw the grim determination in John's tense features, and she suddenly felt as if she was in the presence of a guardian angel.

* * *

><p>It was late in the morning when at last Watson returned home from his work in Whitechapel. Holmes had a greeting poised upon his lips when Watson staggered through the sitting room door, clothes torn, mudded, and blood-soaked, the stain radiating from his bad shoulder. "My dear Watson!" Holmes cried, leaping to his feet from the settee.<p>

Watson looked up from returning his revolver to his desk, fatigue, residual anger, and pain dimming his hazel eyes and turning them cognac brown. "Holmes," he began, his voice as dull as his eyes. "I beg you not to deduce what has happened."

"Watson, you are asking the impossible," Holmes murmured. _You have been in a fight in Whitechapel—I know that mud—and you were not the only injured party. You smell of disinfectant—there was a victim; you were defending them. That jagged hole in your clothes was clearly made by a knife._

Even Lestrade could have put the clues together, though Holmes did not dare to do so aloud.

"Holmes. Please." Those expressive eyes were certainly a force to be reckoned with; Holmes merely sighed and shook his head.

"At least tell me that you've had the shoulder tended to."

"Yes." The relief in Watson's voice was profound.

"Very well, old man." Holmes forced levity into his tone, for Watson's sake. "I do hope that you plan on going to bed soon; you look dreadful."

Watson shook his head in turn and shot Holmes a grateful smile before leaving the room. Holmes frowned contemplatively and turned to retrieve his cherrywood from the pipe rack. He had not yet been approached by Scotland Yard over the Ripper Case—Lestrade and Gregson, despite multiple protests, were not allowed to investigate, either. The powers that be apparently deemed Inspectors Abberline, Moore, and Andrews to be enough the handle the case. Ha. Their incompetence was not even amusing. But…

But Watson had now been dragged into this sordid affair.

And not only dragged, but stabbed, right in the shoulder that had cast him out of the army in the first place.

Holmes puffed furiously at his pipe, his hand clenching around the bowl. Whatever this bastard called himself—Saucy Jack, Jack the Ripper—he would not continue his reign of terror for long. He was about to find out just how very great a mistake it was to injure the man Sherlock Holmes called "friend."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

That was… a bit draining. And long. And how I managed to write something like that in about two hours is BEYOND ME.

I hope I managed the whole thing all right, being true to real life and all. I must confess that all my knowledge of the Ripper is entirely Internet-based and not at all in-depth (Wikipedia and London Met's website). If you want a good Holmes vs. Ripper story, I suggest you check out the film _Murder by Decree_ (starring the wonderful Christopher Plummer and James Mason as Holmes and Watson) and the book _Dust and Shadow_, by Lyndsay Faye. I have never seen nor read either respectively in their entirety, but it is my understanding that they are excellent stories.

The truth is, Watson met Mary the _exact same month_ that the Ripper hype took off. Not only the year, 1888, but the very month, September. As for why Mary would have a friend in Whitechapel, it's not inconceivable that she would have a mate who'd married down and had to live in one of the worst parts of London.

Writing the Ripper's assault on Mary… it wasn't the first time I've written such a scene, but it's the first to be published. And I did squirm a bit in writing it.

All I have left to say are two excerpts from my novel-in-progress, _Mortality_:

_The other three, to a man, flinched. The Whitechapel murders hung in the air amongst them, an all-too-recent ghost, and Lestrade knew that Watson's memories of those blood-soaked months were far more vivid than his or Gregson's._

And:

_Not-Watson smiled viciously and drew a knife from his jacket, twirling it tauntingly before the detective's eyes. "Heard you were quite put out by Saucy Jack," the man smirked. Unbidden, images of the Ripper's victims flashed before Holmes's mind's eye, and he just suppressed a shudder. "The Great Detective couldn't find London's most infamous multiple murderer. Such a pity. Think you'd enjoy receiving the treatment all those wenches did?"_

_**Please, please review!**_


	10. Day 17: The Actor

_Day 17 – prompt from Sui Generis Paroxysm: Shakespeare._

**Note:** I want to thank everybody for not dropping me after reading the previous installment. I know it was a lot to take in, especially from _moi_, who generally avoids… _intimacy_… like the plague. (See? I can't even spit it out, even if I _can_ spit out a few swear words every now and then.) I hadn't even originally planned to get as explicit as I did (for the record, some authors would have gotten a _lot_ more detailed), but that's the way the story progressed. My sincerest apologies to anybody who was brain-scarred by that episode. Since today's subject isn't exactly cheerful, either, I hereby direct you, once you're finished with today's install, to one of my lighter pieces, such as "Violinist on the Roof" or chapter 29 of _A Study in Stardom_. After all, laughter is the best kind of medicine!

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 17: The Actor==<strong>

"Come along, Ed, and quit gawking at Irving."

Sherlock did not deign to glance at his associate as he whispered back, "In a moment. I want to watch to the end of the scene."

"Very well. Just don't get The Governor riled when he's done, there's a good chap?"

Sherlock nodded irritably and kept his gaze focused upon Henry Irving, manager and star of the Lyceum Theatre, currently rehearsing for the next production. Irving was a brilliant actor—it was easy to see why people flocked to his performances. Sherlock had come here himself as a member of the audience before…

Before.

Now he was investigating a murder that had occurred just outside the theatre two weeks ago, and, to do so, he had gone undercover as a young actor named Edward Love. Just now, he really _should_ be looking into one of the other actors, but the artist in him had been held captive by Irving's rehearsal. He played Shylock magnificently, imbuing him with a dignity seldom found in performances of the character.

"The Merchant of Venice_ is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. I have always liked Portia very much—her devotion, her intelligence, her wit…"_

"_Very much like you."_

"_Sherlock Edward Holmes, have you no shame?"_

"_You know I don't."_

He shut his eyes against the unwelcome memory, pushed it to the back of his mind. Annie had been dead for a year now, but memories of her still had the maddening ability to distract him from his work. Sighing, his hand rose to his chest to clutch at an all-too-physical ache.

He still missed her, terribly.

As he remained in his seat, watching Irving deliver his lines, Sherlock could not help but wonder who was the better actor: the man who could bring crowds night after night to a performance, or a man who could convince the world day by day that he was not dying on the inside of heartache?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I cycled through several ideas and two drafts before I finally hit upon this. In 1878, actor Henry Irving took control of Lyceum Theatre; a year later, he was performing Shylock in _The Merchant of Venice_. His employees called him "The Governor," and his dignified performance of Shylock did indeed differ from the norm.

I didn't mean to make this piece romantic angst; it just ended up that way. Sherlock was simply supposed to watch Irving, but then the piece was too short, and I had to add something. Anne Middleton entered the equation and surprised me probably more than she surprised Sherlock. If you haven't read _Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality_, then you might be little lost. Annie was created as a love interest for a young, pre-Baker Street Sherlock, their relationship forming a piece of my character development for the Great Detective. As Lestrade says in my online epic, _Mortality_: _"Sherlock Holmes in his early twenties was a young man I would not have wagered on reaching his thirtieth year."_

Here's hoping the next installment is brighter in tone! Much brighter!

_**Please review!**_


	11. Day 18: Long Time Falling

_Day 18 – prompt from Sui Generis Paroxysm: Nevermore, but no ravens involved._

**Note:** Day early on this one, since I don't post on Sundays. Don't forget to check out the previous chapter if you haven't done so!

**Further Note:** Golly, I have not read "The Raven" since I was a freshman in high school. Or younger. So I quick found it on Wiki and thought, _Okay, what in the _world_ am I going to do with this?_ What I came up with is based less on the poem and more on the lovely word _nevermore_ (although even that's a bit of a stretch). Regardless, this will be sad.

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 18: Long Time Falling==<strong>

_We never know how high we are_

_Till we are called to rise;_

_And then, if we are true to plan,_

_Our statures touch the skies._

_The heroism we recite_

_Would be a daily thing,_

_Did not ourselves the cubits warp_

_For fear to be a king._

—Emily Dickinson

All his life, he was flying.

From birth, he was destined for great heights. He spoke articulately from an early age, read, wrote, scribbled out mathematical equations far beyond the average understanding for his age. He rose.

He completed school astonishingly early, entered university immediately afterwards, stayed on for years until he reached his doctorate, only in his twenties. He gained recognition first as a genius in mathematics, then as a genius in astrophysics. He did not _climb_ the ladder of success—he ignored it altogether and _flew_. Higher and higher and higher he soared, 'til he was almost dizzy with triumph after triumph.

It was almost inevitable, he would muse later, that a storm would arrive to intercept his course. Only someone beyond mortality and the finite human mind could possibly enjoy perfect success.

The storm was harsh and unforgiving, and he was compelled to abandon his ambitions in the university. Instead, he was left to focus on his quieter but stronger accomplishments. He had risen from servant to king in a realm of shadows, and he concentrated upon expanding his kingdom. Conquest after conquest, he experienced nothing but victory on this plane of existence, for none could withstand, let alone contest, him. He held his reign for many years, alone and unchallenged.

Then there came a light that grew in radiance until it pierced his shadows, impeded his flight. Stronger and stronger the light grew, and became the first true threat he had ever faced. He attempted to extinguish the light, and indeed it was nearly quenched—but it survived.

It survived, and he fell. He fell and attempted to pull the brilliant boy—for the light was a boy—with him.

He touched ground and stood against his foe, and they struggled on a great height. He attacked like a great bird of prey, swooping down upon the boy and tearing at him. His prey was weak, and he moved in for the kill…

Then he flailed at the edge, and the boy watched with something akin to vindication in his luminous eyes.

He fell.

He fell, and at last he realized that he had not flown in a very long time. He realized that he had always been falling, and now he would never fly again.

_Quoth the detective, "Nevermore,"_ his mind supplied ironically.

_And the boy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting  
>On the cliff far above me;<br>And his eyes have all the seeming of an angel's that is dreaming,  
>And the sunlight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the falls;<br>And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the falls  
>Shall be lifted—nevermore!<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

This was a bit difficult, sticking with the metaphor of flying (writing a similar piece for AMM but of _Holmes_ _**running**_ was much easier). But I'm glad I remembered Emily Dickinson's poem, because that was a lovely way to introduce the metaphor. Speaking of poems, I hope I may be forgiven for the way I played with "The Raven" at the very end. The final stanza just seemed to fit so perfectly with a little tailoring.

Anyway, I thought this was sad. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, and I believe he knew what he was doing when he entered the London Underworld all those years ago. On the other hand, I'm sure he did not believe himself evil, whatever his views on morality were. Perhaps he even bore a streak of self-righteousness, believing himself better than petty, hypocritical mortals. And just maybe, he realized at the end what he truly was.

It's not a tragic hero story like Anakin Skywalker, but it's tragic in its own right.

And, golly, that makes it THREE angst pieces in a row! Hades, _please_ let me have a lighter prompt next time!

_**Please review!**_


	12. Day 19: A Father's Love

_Day 19 – prompt from Poseidon – God of the Seas: Holmes hosts the Baker Street Irregulars for an annual dinner._

**Note:** YES! One of my increasingly-favorite subjects to write about! Prepare F-L-U-F-F!

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 19: A Father's Love==<strong>

"I'll take that, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, bless you, Davy."

"Pardon me, gentlemen…"

"Careful now, Wig."

"'M all right!"

"This package is not labeled… Watson, you wrapped this?"

"Hmm? Oh, that is Colin's."

"Thank you."

Watson sighed and threw himself down on the settee while Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and Davy Wiggins bustled around him. "This dinner grows larger and larger every year…"

"Because the Irregulars grow in number with each passing year," Holmes said easily, finishing off the label for Colin's gift and setting it with its fellows beneath the Christmas tree.

"At this rate, you shall have an organization far exceeding what you or even Wiggins can handle," Watson warned, massaging his bad shoulder.

Wiggins had been passing the settee with the goose, but he halted and bent down. "Then we'll simply organize ourselves like the Yard," he said in a stage whisper. Watson laughed, saw the obligatory scowl Holmes gave, and laughed even harder.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson interjected, "how are we to fit _thirty-seven_ boys in this room?"

"Obviously, we cannot," Holmes replied airily. "We shall fit them all between the sitting room and my bedroom; that will do."

"If you say so, sir." Mrs. Hudson looked somewhat less than convinced.

"I do," Holmes said firmly.

Miraculously, he was right. It ended up being a rather tight fit, but they did manage.

Watson watched them eat and laugh, warm and able to fill their bellies for once. The Baker Street Irregulars were a diverse group in age, ethnicity, appearance, and personality. The Wiggins brothers were staunchly Anglo-Saxon, but Sean Youghal was purely Irish—and he was not the only Irish boy. Allen Rhys was one of the few Irregulars who were not street Arabs—more than that, he was actually the nephew of Lestrade's wife. Mrs. Lestrade's family was a rare blend of Welsh and Jewish. Jakez was Breton. Thomas was Italian. Nicholas was Russian.

Most of these boys were bound by poverty, and all by love. From the oldest to the youngest, they loved each other and they loved their father.

And their father loved them.

Watson saw it when he witnessed Holmes playing with the younger boys, boxing with the older ones, teaching them how to write, singing with the few songbirds of the group… He recalled the first time he'd seen Holmes embrace one of his Irregulars. Holmes was a man who cherished his privacy and his personal space, and Watson had expected his flat mate's back to stiffen when that limping little scarecrow had thrown his arms around the detective. To Watson's surprise, however, Holmes had returned the embrace fully.

Sherlock Holmes loved children, and they loved him. There was something timeless about his spirit, mature beyond his years and yet forever young, that endeared him to children, that allowed him to understand them, empathize with them. Watson had seen Holmes more at ease with children than with adults many times.

The gifts were practical, as they always were, but the boys were delighted. Watson laughed to see one of the recent recruits prance through his fellows, flinging his scarf this way and that. The doctor glanced up to see Holmes watching them all, his grey eyes soft and solemn. Wiggins rose from his position on the floor and stepped over one of the little ones to reach his mentor; he bent over and whispered something in Holmes's ear. Holmes quirked a little smile, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. He navigated the moving sea of boys to reach his Stradivarius high on the bookcase, safe from grubby little hands.

The boys gamely tried to sing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," "Deck the Halls," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and "Silent Night." Wiggins did his utmost to conduct them all with his strong tenor, but to no avail. The result was an amusing ramble of different accents and pitches, but Holmes never faltered, leading them through song after song.

Watson caught Holmes's eye, and Holmes grinned. Watson smiled back at him.

The man who presented himself to the world as cold and unfeeling revealed himself to thirty-seven boys as a father who loved them deeply and thought the world of them. It was a legacy Watson knew would be remembered by the children of these children, and their children after them… And yet, Watson knew it was a legacy he could never publish.

Some things are too sacred to put into print.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'd originally planned on something comedic, and, again, I ended up with something cute but solemn. Well, it turned out pretty good for all that. =)

This is how I see Sherlock Holmes with his Irregulars, and how I see him with children. For that matter, how I see him as an emotional being. And you can thank Jeremy Brett for helping me along in that. ^_^

_**Please review!**_


	13. Day 20: Sherlock's 12 Days of Christmas

_Day 20 – prompt from Agatha Doyle: Write a Holmesian version of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'._

**Note:** mrspencil would've been the obvious choice for this prompt—and, honestly, the better. Meter and I don't exactly get along. Ach, well… here goes nothin'!

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 20: Sherlock's Twelve Days of Christmas==<strong>

On the first day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

A Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the second day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Two small notebooks

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the third day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the fourth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the fifth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the sixth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the seventh day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the eighth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Eight sheets of foolscap,

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the ninth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Nine bottles of ink,

Eight sheets of foolscap,

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the tenth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Ten watercolours,

Nine bottles of ink,

Eight sheets of foolscap,

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the eleventh day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Eleven cigarillos,

Ten watercolours,

Nine bottles of ink,

Eight sheets of foolscap,

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

xxx

On the twelfth day of Christmas,

My Boswell gave to me

Twelve Irregulars drumming,

Eleven cigarillos,

Ten watercolours,

Nine bottles of ink,

Eight sheets of foolscap,

Seven revolver bullets,

Six silver cufflinks,

Five gold tiepins,

Four commonplace books,

Three fountain pens,

Two small notebooks,

And a Norway spruce Christmas tree.

* * *

><p>"<em>Confess now, Watson—Mycroft aided you."<em>

"_Well, perhaps a bit."_

"_I wonder what Lestrade would say if I committed fratricide?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

_Ha_! Weren't expecting _that_ ending, were you? That's like the overhead dialogue at the end of a movie trailer, y'know? Lol!

Aw, man, and this was so tough, too. I mean, not only making sure everything fit the meter more or less, but also just thinking up all the gifts! I can't believe I actually _finished_ this and am _satisfied_ with it! And gingerbread men to anyone who got the "Norway spruce" part!

_**Please review!**_


	14. Day 21: The Toy

_Day 21 – prompt from Spockologist: Holmes has a new toy. And it's incredibly annoying._

**Note:** CRACK AHEAD. Couldn't resist.

**Further Note:** If you click to my profile, you'll see another brand-new Sherlock Holmes Christmas story: _It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes_. It's based upon the _Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century_ cartoon, but even if you've never seen the cartoon, it shouldn't be that hard to follow (and Wikipedia and IMDb can help you out). Please check it out!

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 21: The Toy==<strong>

"Holmes?"

"Holmes…"

"Holmes!"

"Oh, confound it! _What_, Watson?"

"What on _earth_ **is** that thing?"

"It is called a Game Boy, Doctor. Mycroft says his department is testing them out as a method of building problem-solving skills."

"…I seeee… And you, ah, _need_ aid in building problem-solving skills?"

"Don't be daft, man. It is a complex little machine with the most intriguing scenarios programmed into it."

"…_programmed_."

"Yes."

"I see. It is… rather _loud_."

"Ah, yes. Unfortunately, the inventors have yet to design volume control."

"…volume control."

"Quite so."

_**Ten minutes later…**_

"Holmes, I am trying to write—would you _please_ stop playing with that thing?"

"_Game Boy_, Watson. Oh, very well—I'll take it into my bedroom."

"Thanks awfully."

_**Twenty minutes…**_

"Half an hour. Half a bloody hour, and I am already being driven insane. This flat is not, as the Americans say, big enough for me and that bloody machine."

_**The next day…**_

"Watson, have you seen my Game Boy?"

"Afraid I haven't, old man! Did you look downstairs?"

"No. I'll do that right now. I can't think where it might be…"

_**One minute later…**_

"…I'm sorry, Holmes, truly, but it was a matter of that toy or my sanity. Just please don't kill me once you realize what has happened."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*snickers* Ever read _My BFF Watson_? It's one of KCS's collabs—I would have used a cell phone here instead of a Game Boy, but she and her collaborator beat me to it. ^_^ Anyway, so… yeah, Game Boy is actually Japanese—picky, picky, picky… Artistic license. Sue me.

Aww, poor Holmes! He didn't mean to drive Watson crazy! And Watson can just be _devious_ sometimes, can't he? *is still snickering*

_**Please review!**_


	15. Day 22: Far but Close

_Day 22 – prompt from MyelleWhite: A letter from an old friend abroad.  
><em>

**Note:** I think this will be unexpected…

**Further Note:** "Norway spruce Christmas tree" from "Sherlock's Twelve Days of Christmas" was an allusion to Granada's CARD. Holmes notes the tree, points slowly: "What is that?" Watson replies that it's a Christmas tree, a Norway spruce. Another Granada allusion I forgot to point out is in yesterday's "The Toy": the scene leading up to Watson's line "Thanks awfully" was drawn off of the end scene of RESI, with that particular line being directly from the episode.

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 22: Far but Close==<strong>

Dear Sherlock,

I dearly hope that my letter finds you and the Watsons well. Your brother has informed me that the good Doctor had departed with Kitchener's Army; I was surprised, but I should not have been. Dr. Watson has always been a soldier, first and foremost, hasn't he?

Young Godfrey wishes that he was a British citizen so that he might go to Europe. I thank God that he is not and that the U.S. of A. has had the sense to remain out of Europe's conflict, and yet I cannot help but feel that such a sentiment is terribly selfish of me. How dare I be relieved that my son cannot go to war when tens of thousands of mothers wish their sons had not? I fear, dear Sherlock. I fear for this, our children's, generation.

How fare the Watson children without their father? How fares Eileen? And, yes, Sherlock, how do _you_ cope with the—pray God that it is temporary, only!—loss of your Boswell?

Will you still keep bees in Sussex, or is your return to London permanent? Mycroft would say only that you have done and are continuing to do services for king and country. I hope that you remain safe as you do so. The world has already been turned upside down enough; it need not lose one of the great heroes of Victoria's reign.

And speaking of heroes, I do believe that Cécile has developed an infatuation for you, thanks to Dr. Watson's stories. Never mind that you are old enough to be her father and might nearly have become such, given time—she is quite in love with gaslight, London Particulars, amateur detectives, and veteran doctors. The amateur detective holds her highest affection.

Forgive me for teasing you, dear, but it is true. I am not worried overmuch about it: because of her affection for you, she has developed certain high standards to expect in a suitor. In all likelihood, you are guarding her heart from falling for unworthy scoundrels, like the "King of Bohemia." May my little girl be wiser in her choices than her mother was.

Another thing I must thank you for, as if I did not already owe you enough. I know that you considered our debts balanced, but I do not. I needed stability in those few months as much as you did, perhaps more so. It is a grave thing for a mother to be alone in the world with her infant twins whilst abroad. For those happy few months, you did give my children something they needed desperately: a father's love. For that, you have my undying gratitude.

It is late now, so I shall close in a moment. I do not know when this letter shall reach you, so I shall wish you an early Merry Christmas. I hope it shall still be merry, this first Christmas of the War to End All Wars. (Do you truly believe that title? I cannot. It seems far too optimistic, perhaps even arrogant.)

May there still be joy in your home, and in the Watson's. And I remain

Yours most truly,

_Irene Norton_

* * *

><p>"<em>Uncle Sherlock, who is that letter from?"<em>

"_An old friend, Helen-girl. A dear old friend. You met her once, but you were too young to remember."_

"_Oh?"_

"_Do you remember your father's tale of The Woman? Well, I was reunited with her a few years later, on the Continent during those three years following Reichenbach…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Irene Norton was actually the first person who sprang to mind. Personally, I like her (canon, plz!), and I don't mind Holmes/Irene. Now, I'm not advocating that pairing here beyond something akin to a platonic romance, and I'm certainly _not_ advocating a divorce from Godfrey Norton or an affair. The idea here is that Mr. Norton died, and Irene and Holmes ran into each other pretty literally during the Great Hiatus—Irene offered Holmes sanctuary, and he offered her support during a difficult time.

If you haven't already checked out _It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes_, please do so! It's got, well, bucket-loads of angst, shameless h/c, and it _will_ have a happy ending. Please, go to m' profile and click!

_**Please review!**_


	16. Day 23: A Friend in Need

_Day 23 – prompt from Poseidon: Watson is forced to choose between his practice and Holmes.  
><em>

**Note:** Well, we know who'll win out on _that_ toss… ^_^

**Further Note:** For clarification regarding yesterday's story, "Far but Close"… Sorry for not coming right out and spelling out certain things in an A/N—I left a lot to be deduced. First off, I banked on readers recognizing the term "Kitchener's Army" to point them to the first year of WWI—I also used the term "War to End All Wars" to put the letter in the WWI timeframe. "Eileen" is my name for Watson's second wife. "Helen" is Watson's firstborn by Eileen, fourteen years old by the outbreak of the war. "Young Godfrey and Cécile" are the children of Godfrey and Irene Norton, born sometime around 1891—so they are in their early twenties by the writing of Irene's letter. And I think that's everything!

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 23: A Friend in Need==<strong>

"_John, I need you more than your friend does. If this continues…"_

"_I understand, sir."_

"Watson, I need you."

"Holmes, I cannot leave Henning in the lurch again. I shall certain lose my position, this time, and I am needed _here_. You saw for yourself the line of patients just beyond this door."

"But… Never mind. I shall… never mind. So sorry to have disturbed you, Watson."

"Holmes, you're hurt!"

"A trifle, really. Oh, Watson, come—I've had far worse than this."

"Considering that you were nearly killed by a bullet once, I don't find that very comforting. Sit down."

"No! Watson, I cannot delay!"

"John?"

"Dr. Henning, sir."

"Is anything wrong?"

_Watson. I need you._

_I know._

"Sir, I must regretfully tender my resignation. My services are needed elsewhere."

_Oh, Watson._

"John, really! Resignation and on such short notice!"

"My sincerest apologies for that, sir, but I truly am needed. Come, Holmes."

"But… John!"

"…Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Do not think that I am blind to what this is costing you."

"Yes, well… You said you need me. You do not use that word often—I know that matters are important when you do."

"Well-reasoned, Watson."

"Besides…"

"Why are you smiling?"

"Oh, you idiot. You are my dearest, truest friend and the one man for whom I would drop everything to follow."

"…really?"

"Really, old fellow."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Awww! Watson's just the best! =) Could you tell that Holmes was just a little put out by Watson's "well-reasoning"? Mr. So-Called-Brain-without-a-Heart wanted to hear Watson say he was doing it for _Holmes's_ sake because they were friends. He can be an idiot, but he's _our_ idiot, and he's such a cute one.

_**Please review!**_


	17. Christmas Eve: Together

_Christmas Eve – prompt from Poseidon: A fire starts in 221B, on Christmas Eve. Will it ruin Christmas? Holmes and Watson investigate._

**Note:** This is a tentative possible scene from my own _Deliver Us from Evil_ universe. I don't expect you to understand why right now, but I thought I'd say it all the same. Sherlock has been… very ill, and he's only just now recovering. I also took a little bit of liberty with the letter of the prompt.

* * *

><p><strong>==Christmas Eve: Together==<strong>

Sherlock stood on his own two legs and grinned tiredly at his astonished audience.

"Holmes!" Watson cried.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed simultaneously.

"What on _earth_ are you doing out of bed?" Watson demanded.

"Obviously, he wishes to give us a serious fright when he collapses from exhaustion," Mycroft said pointedly. Sherlock simply shook his head and did not protest when Mycroft assisted him towards his own armchair, into which he sank gratefully.

"Thank you, brother mine," he murmured, then flashed the Watsons another grin.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary breathed. She rose uncertainly from the settee, then abandoned all hesitation and rushed forward to fling her arms around him. "You are going to be all right—oh, thank God!"

"In time, at any rate," Sherlock agreed, wrapping his arms around her. He could not imagine the fright he had already given her, seeing him in his ravaged state. "I have missed you, Mary," he whispered, returning her embrace with as much strength as he could manage.

Mary pulled away and wiped at the tears falling from her large blue eyes. "I've missed you." She laughed self-consciously. "My apologies—I had not intended…"

"Shh." He put his finger on her lips. "It's all right."

She nodded and stood, backing away to let her husband step forward. "You left your bed just today?" said John.

Sherlock nodded, still amazed at himself for doing it.

Watson sighed and shook his head. "You are an idiot," he said flatly, but Sherlock caught the sparkle in the amber-hazel eyes. "Oh, Holmes."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no one ever knew what he would have said. They heard the sound of shattering glass in the next room, and a _whoosh_ that was all too familiar to Sherlock and John. Forgetting his exhaustion, Sherlock sprang out of his chair. John beat him to the bedroom and shouted, "Mycroft, get Mary and Mrs. Hudson out of the house!"

"John!"

"Good heavens…"

"_Go!_" Sherlock shouted hoarsely, raising his dressing gown to protect his nose and mouth as he and Watson rushed at the fire spreading on the floor. They tore the bedclothes off Sherlock's bed and beat the flames licking at the rug. Again and again and again…

The room filled with smoke, and it was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

His adrenaline expended, Sherlock collapsed against the bed, coughing uncontrollably. Watson lifted him up and bore him back out to the sitting room, laying him out on the settee. "Stay here," Watson whispered urgently, and fled the room. Sherlock merely buried his face into one of the pillows, struggling to stop the coughs.

Two minutes later, John returned with Mary, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson in tow. "Mr. Holmes, are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson asked with motherly concern.

"I'll fetch him some water," said Mary.

Mycroft settled his bulk into his brother's armchair and sighed. "Of all the ways to spend Christmas Eve…"

John leaned over the back of the settee as Mary delivered a glass to the convalescent detective. "Thank you, dear," Sherlock said after a gulp of water. "Well?" he added in an undertone to Watson.

"I couldn't be certain," Watson began slowly, "but I think I recognized the man as one of the lot that's been watching this house. I only caught the back of him as he fled."

Sherlock leant back and closed his eyes with a sigh. "Should have known—" he coughed—"Moriarty would have attempted arson as… as a way to finish me… if all else failed…"

"You've been scarcely lucid enough even to entertain such an idea," Watson said severely.

A wave of shame washed over the detective, and he threw his arm across his still-closed eyes. "I know."

"Holmes." His Boswell's voice was gentle this time. "Moriarty won the first battle, not the war."

Mary's cry of delight brought their attentions back to the present. "Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes," she smiled at Mycroft as she held up a beautifully-bound _Idylls of the King_.

"He shan't try again tonight," Watson whispered as the other three occupants of the room busied themselves with the gifts beneath the tree, striving for a sense of normalcy. "For tonight, Holmes, let's enjoy this holiest of holidays."

"Poetic as ever, Watson," Sherlock smirked, but the expression swiftly gave way to solemnity. "Do you know, I somehow feel as if… as if this is the last Christmas we shall enjoy together for… for quite a long time."

They both remembered those words next Christmas, when a decision made above a waterfall somewhere in Switzerland separated them. One wished desperately that a friend had not given his life for victory; the other wished that he had not walked away from his friend. Fires on the hearth reminded both of the flames that had tried to ruin their last Christmas together.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Hrm. Figures I do something semi-angsty on Christmas Eve. I couldn't just do something lighthearted with the prompt—nooo, I had to go mess with _Deliver Us from Evil_. *sigh*

Well, for the first time since I joined FFN, I'll be posting on a Sunday! Swing around tomorrow if you have time in-between services, family gatherings, and whatnot for the Christmas special here on _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_—and check out the charged conclusion to _It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes_!

Have a blessed and Merry Christmas!

_**Please review!**_


	18. Christmas Day: Family

_Christmas Day – prompt from mrspencil: Mycroft calls round with Christmas presents.  
><em>

**Note:** My original idea took too much liberty with the prompt, so I might do a Mycroft/Christmas standalone at a later date. Terribly sorry for the lateness of the upload—first I got the prompt late yesterday, then I had no time even to start writing on Christmas Eve, then no time before going to church yesterday morning, then spent half the day there. And _then_ I had to struggle past writer's block! *throws up hands* Well, having to listen to "Mandolin Rain" whilst trying to write probably didn't help… But after that, well… not a very good night last night. So there was one roadblock after another.

**Further Note:** This is Christmas 1904, and Sherlock has been retired in Sussex for a little over a year. Watson, meantime, has been married for five years to Eileen and has two children thus far, Helen and Sherlock Jr.…

* * *

><p><strong>==Christmas Day: Family==<strong>

John kept a tight hold on his two-year-old son and watched the womenfolk bustle about the Lestrades' kitchen and dining room/sitting room. The youngest Lestrade girl, Esther, was content to play dolls with Helen, despite the difference of four years in age. Lestrade and Wiggins were talking shop—in the months since Holmes's retirement, Davy Wiggins had become the new consultant of the older Yarders.

The Lestrade and Wiggins children were either playing or preparing the tables, which left John off to the side to avoid being bowled over. Little Sherlock was, for now, content to rest his head on his father's good shoulder and watch the goings-on.

Then John caught the sound of the front door opening, and a hearty _ho-ho-ho!_ booming out. Sherlock shot up in John's arms, green eyes wide. "Fah-therw Cwiss-mass!" he cried, dropping out of his father's hold and darting away with the other young children. John chuckled and followed at a more sedate pace to find a rosy-cheeked, gift-laden Mycroft Holmes out in the hall, beset by a small army of children.

"You almost missed dinner, Mr. Claus," John called, grinning.

"_You_ are as incorrigible as my brother," Mycroft retorted, trying to disentangle himself from the clutches of Sherlock Jr. and little Ian Wiggins. He succeeded and waded through the children—all trying to get a look at the plethora of presents now littering the hall—to enfold John in a brotherly embrace. "Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." John pulled away just enough to peer around the larger man's shoulder. "Do you know, I believe you outdid yourself this year?"

The elder Holmes shrugged expansively. "I have no immediate family to indulge aside from Sherlock, and the young fool certainly needs no indulgence from me." Seven years was apparently an eternity, and Mycroft would be calling his brother "young" when they were both in their dotage—if such a thing ever came to be. John had his doubts. "And I do so enjoy the challenge of choosing gifts for everyone—quite a nice change from the stress of Whitehall."

John nodded his understanding, then frowned as he noticed Helen standing on tiptoe to peer out the front window. She looked about as distressed as her four years would allow. "Helen, darling, what is the matter?"

She padded over to her father. "I thought _he_ would come." She looked ready to cry.

Of course. John didn't need to ask who _he_ was. "Oh, sweetheart." He lifted her into his arms and held close. "Perhaps next Christmas."

Mycroft was watching them intently. "Helen," he said, gently, "would you like me to give you your gift now?"

Helen looked up and nodded wordlessly, brushing a tear away from her right cheek.

"Very well." Mycroft returned to the door, opened it, and whistled. A few moments later, the door swung open once more to reveal another tall figure, this one lean and black-clad with a grey scarf hiding most of his face.

Helen's eyes went round, and she leapt down to rush at the newcomer. "_Uncle Sherlock!_" She collided full-force with the thin legs, and the figure staggered backwards, laughing.

"Merry Christmas, Helen-girl!" he cried, pulling down his scarf and sweeping her up into his arms. Sherlock Holmes flung his free arm out in a theatrical wave and called, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good day!"

Lestrade and Wiggins appeared around the corner, Wiggins hurrying forward to greet his former mentor. The Yarder merely leaned against the wall, folding his arms and casting a longsuffering look at John, who could only return a bewildered expression. Mycroft merely looked satisfied with himself.

The younger Holmes made his way through the gifts and children and now bore his namesake godson along with his goddaughter. He reached John and beamed. "Merry Christmas, Watson."

"Holmes," John murmured, studying his friend. The last time they'd seen each other had been in October—in Sussex, of course. When Holmes had left, he'd sworn… "You said you'd not come back."

The smile froze on the lean face. "Helen, Sherlock, dears, why don't you go help the other children deliver Uncle Mycroft's presents to the tree, hmm?" The pair murmured their assent and slid down, leaving two old friends facing each other. Mycroft had somehow slipped away without their notice, and Lestrade was occupied with the children.

"You came back."

"I did," Holmes said quietly. "And I did say that I would not come back."

"Then why did you?"

"Surely, my dear Watson, you must be familiar with my bad habit, after all these years."

"Which one?" Watson said dryly.

Holmes gave him a look. "My bad habit of saying things which I regret later."

"Ah. _That_ one."

"You are not making this easy."

"Have I any reason to do so?"

One black eyebrow lifted. "Touché." Holmes shook his head. "My dear fellow, can you forgive me for that?"

Watson sighed. "_Why_ did you come back?"

"Because the people I love are here."

John froze. It was most certainly not in Sherlock Holmes's nature to be so candid about his own emotions. "I beg your pardon?"

"The people. I love. Are here. Watson, do stop gaping like a fish in a Billingsgate stall, there's a good fellow?"

John shook his head, freeing his mind to start working again after the little shock given it. "Holmes, I… I don't know what to say. Except that I am terribly glad you've come."

"I'm rather glad myself," Holmes ventured with a shy grin.

John chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come into the sitting room, old man. I think there are others who would like to wish you holiday greetings."

As they entered the sitting room arm in arm, they found Helen with her arms wrapped around Mycroft. "That was the bestest Christmas present _ever_, Uncle Mycroft," she said happily. "Thank you."

"Thank your present himself," Mycroft laughed. "Go on." He set the little girl down, who then came running to Sherlock.

"Thank you, Uncle Sherlock!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his legs.

Sherlock Holmes smiled down at her. "You're welcome, Helen-girl. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas!"

Watson squeezed Holmes's shoulder and repeated, "Merry Christmas."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Well, let's see if I can get caught up and do today's prompt today… d'oh boy. I _hate_ getting behind.

I hope that yours was a truly blessed and merry Christmas, all the more as mine was not.

_**Please review!**_


	19. Day 26: Helpmeet

_Day 26 – prompt from Hades: Watson is dragged from his Christmas dinner with Mary by Holmes, who needs him on a case. Mary goes with them._

**Note:** I'm still deplorably bad at casefic, so… this is friendship!fic. Actually, more like family!fic. And omniscient POV, which I haven't consciously done in a long time… let's see if I'm better at it now.

* * *

><p><strong>==Day 26: Helpmeet==<strong>

"Good heavens!"

"Mary, you…"

"Yes."

"He's…"

"Alive."

"Oh. Good."

From her sitting position on… well, on a prone criminal, Mary Watson blinked innocently up at her husband and her honorary brother (in-law). She folded her hands demurely in her lap and raised an inviting eyebrow. John lowered himself to the floor—mindful of his bad leg—to check Gates as best he could with his wife perched on the prisoner's back.

"He is handcuffed," Sherlock felt the need to point out.

"Yes, he is."

"With my handcuffs."

"Yes."

Holmes resisted the urge to knead his forehead. "How did you get them?"

"I lifted them off of you," she said easily. "Davy taught me."

John's jaw hit his collar. Holmes continued to resist the urge to knead his forehead, despite the vicious headache forming there. When he'd dropped in on the Watsons' Christmas dinner with a plea for Watson's help, he had not counted on getting Mary in the bargain. But even he had to succumb to a five-foot-three powerhouse with stern teacher's eyes and a voice to match.

Somehow, in the warehouse they'd been searching, she'd slipped off without either man noticing. One minute, they were looking for Gates; the next minute, a commotion broke out in the building, followed by a tremendous crash. Finally realizing Mary was gone, they'd run toward the source of the noise, only to find Mrs. Watson sitting placidly on a handcuffed criminal with a bleeding skull.

Those clandestine martial arts lessons had obviously paid off.

John cleared his throat. "Well."

"Well?"

John flashed his friend an awkward grin. "You did say 'most useful' and 'decided genius.'"

Holmes had the grace to blush.

Mary looked between them questioningly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind," the men chimed together.

"Not worth repeating," Holmes added. Not at all worth repeated a conversation that had very nearly driven a wedge between himself and his Boswell, thank you very much.

"Well," John said again.

"Well?"

"Shouldn't we hail the nearest constable?"

"Go ahead, dear," Mary told him, settling more comfortably in her makeshift cushion.

John weighed for a moment the ramifications of bringing a PC to this little tableau, with his own wife having taken down the criminal, and sighed. Conventions be hanged, in this instance. Mary had done a good day's work.

He looked up at Holmes and bit down a laugh at the detective's bewildered expression. The best of women are not to be trusted, indeed!

He waited until he was out of earshot before he laughed heartily at their ludicrous situation. What a Christmas!

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Humor!fic! Haven't done a decent silly story in a while—that was fun. (And, I think, inspired by reading Aragonite's and KCS's special blends of comedy recently—those two are so awesome.) Cookies if you recognize Watson's quotes!

_**Please review!**_


	20. Day 27: One of Those Days

_Day 27 – prompt from mrspencil: nothing goes right, despite best intentions._

**Note:** Okay, this just had to be Yarder and specifically Lestrade-centric. Really, it did. Poor Lestrade's the poster-boy for world-falling-apart-around-him-despite-best-intentions.

**Further note:** Some ripe language again. Hey, it's the Yard, and I really _do_ have fun with their swearing. ^_^ (Which is funny, because I… don't… swear… myself… -_-)

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><p><strong>==Day 27: One of Those Days==<strong>

Geoffrey Michael Lestrade started his day with the discovery that Jones was down with influenza. What was cause for the other inspectors' sympathy was cause for Lestrade's frustration, for he found himself inundated with Jones's caseload. Gregson drawled some remark about "nobody but the best" getting the largest caseload, his tone arrogant and condescending but his posture radiating relief. _Of course, the Chief Inspector's "favorite son" doesn't have to worry about being flooded with work, _Lestrade thought darkly as he stomped into his office.

Bradstreet, bless the big oaf, offered to take some of the load off Lestrade's shoulders. What he ended up doing was knocking over a stack of cases-to-be-filed-away. It was the sort of stack that fell under the really-too-high-to-be-safe category, and Lestrade had long been meaning to take care of it. He'd simply not had the time for the past several weeks, so the stack had grown to a precarious height on the desk.

Roger had apologized profusely and attempted to help Lestrade pick them back up… then Police Sergeant Manning had darted into the office to inform Lestrade that his boys had made an arrest but lost the criminal. The criminal in question was one Isa Vance, whom Lestrade had been working to apprehend for the past two weeks for a jewel theft. Constable Parsons was now being treated by Dr. Watson for a concussion.

All this before nine o'clock.

Lestrade was just about ready to give _himself_ a concussion to escape it all.

But policemen do not escape their responsibilities. That had been Lestrade's mantra for two decades, and, by George, he was sticking to it.

Still, he was sorely tempted when he received a telegram from Mr. Know-It-All Sherlock Bloody Holmes, who required search and arrest warrants. Lestrade couldn't even _consider_ refusing—he owed Holmes too many cases to turn down a request for a favor. Ha. Less a request and more calling him on a debt. Several, if one was to get purely technical. _Fool amateur detectives and their two-edged largess_.

"I'm certain he needs them, sir," Hopkins offered tentatively. "He…"

The boy would've been better off keeping his mouth shut, for Lestrade shot him a glare that could have flayed a man alive. The senior detective then promptly sent Hopkins _(crying to his hero)_ to Baker Street with said warrants.

PC Harry Murcher attempted to help Lestrade with his impromptu snowfall, but the big man ended up making the mess worse. (As Lestrade knew he would, but Murcher had been one of his mates when _Lestrade_ was patrolling his own beat years ago. Who was he to refuse such an old friend?)

Davy Wiggins, of all people, dropped by after his English lessons with Lestrade's wife, Annie, to inform him that his eldest boy Jeremy was coming down with a cold. Wiggins insisted on paying for the cough syrup himself, and Lestrade found it difficult to argue with a pair of bright blue eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of a certain pair of bright grey ones…

To top it all off, Lestrade was called in for a meeting with _Mycroft_ "British Government" Holmes. (Not that he would ever say it or even knew it for an indisputable fact, but—contrary to the younger Holmes's opinions—he was neither blind nor stupid.) Mycroft ended the meeting by apologizing for pulling Lestrade away from his duties on such a bad day—no Holmesian genius need apply: Lestrade figured he looked as harried and world-weary as he felt. Whitehall's Mr. Holmes then suggested that Lestrade get Baker Street's Mr. Holmes to help him out; Lestrade thanked him for the suggestion and left.

As if he would ask Sherlock Holmes for _another_ sodding favor when he was already up to his ears in debt! That wasn't even to mention the fact that Annie's tuition fees for Wiggins's lessons were coming straight out of the madman's pocketbook!

At the end of the day, Hopkins, Holmes, Watson, and—did wonders never cease—Isa Vance showed up at the Yard. Vance was promptly escorted to a cell, Hopkins slunk off to avoid his superior, and Holmes assured Lestrade once again that his own name need not be mentioned in conjunction with the case. The amateur strode off in high spirits, leaving his personal physician standing beside his erstwhile personal caretaker.

"As if I can actually lie that blatantly in the report," Lestrade muttered sourly.

Watson patted his shoulder more out of _empathy_ than _sympathy_. "Lestrade."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"There comes a time in a man's life when, at the end of the day, he has to release his tension in a public establishment by liquid means."

The young veteran sounded as if he was at that point in time, himself. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "One of _those_ days, eh?"

"The same for you, yes?"

"However did you deduce that?"

The two men shared a long look. "I hear The Crooked Arrow carries an excellent black cider," Watson suggested.

Lestrade felt a grin creep up on him and grab hold. "Actually, John, I was thinking of something a bit stronger…"

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Lestrade/Watson interaction is so much fun to write! They feel like co-conspirators, you know? Their professionalism and their closeness to Sherlock Holmes give them common ground, despite the vast differences in background. And, at the end, I could really visualize Colin Jeavons and David Burke, like they were at the end of Granada's NORW. Jeavons!Lestrade, FTW.

_**Please review!**_


	21. Day 28: A Changing Age

_Day 28 – prompt from mrspencil: Holmes tries to give up his pipe smoking._

**Note:** I probably could have written something closer to the letter of the prompt, but… I've already written a Holmes-gives-up-cocaine story (for ebook!AMM), and I just didn't want to do a strict abstinence fic again. So, rather, these are times in Holmes's life that he had to go without smoking, pipe or otherwise, and I get closer to the actual prompt at the end.

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><p><strong>==Day 28: A Changing Age==<strong>

Sherlock Holmes, a gentleman born and bred, never smoked pipe or cigarette in the presence of a lady. But when, in 1902, John Watson brought his two-year-old daughter to 221B to visit her godfather after the sordid business with Baron Gruner, father and daughter found the sitting room engulfed in a haze of smoke. Helen hardly had time to cough before Watson slammed the door shut again, eliciting a cry from inside.

They were accosted on the kerb by a still very convalescent detective, who apologized profusely.

From that day on, Holmes confined three-pipe problems and all such smoking to his bedroom. His Boswell and his Boswell's family were worth it.

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><p>It was a handy practice. When the Watsons visited him in Sussex or when he began to visit <em>them<em> in London, he confined his smokes to the bedroom and the outdoors. It was not at all easy. He found his fingers twitching for a pipe or a cigarette, and he could not sate his craving unless he retreated.

* * *

><p>After several years of training himself to go without, he found himself put to the test.<p>

In America.

Altamont was a cocksure, slightly batty fellow who smoked only the finest cigarettes and shunned pipes altogether. Holmes himself was surprised to find that trait in his role, but he endured it as best he could. He hardly ever dared to smoke his beloved clay pipe unless he was absolutely certain he would not be disturbed.

* * *

><p>Holmes's undercover work at last came to a close, and it was with great relief that he shared a quiet pipe with Watson now and then during that horrible August. When Watson left with the first wave of Kitchener's Army, Holmes could not bring himself even to <em>look<em> at his pipe, for even that reminded him of his departed friend.

* * *

><p>He spent very little time in 221B. Room 40 claimed most of his daytime hours, and, when he wasn't in Whitehall, he was either at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft's flat, the Watsons' house, or the Lestrades' house. Only in that last location was he allowed to smoke, and it was always a vast relief to do so.<p>

Either Lestade had gone soft or Holmes had, because they found they got along very well these days.

* * *

><p>Then came the nerve-wracking year of 1918 and, with it, the news that Lieutenant-Colonel John H. Watson of the RAMC was missing. Sherlock Holmes and a now eighteen-year-old Helen Watson set off to scour the Continent. Holmes would much rather that she had stayed behind, but he could not triumph over Watsonian stubbornness in Helen any more than he could over John.<p>

Heedless of the presence of a young lady, Holmes would puff enough smoke to rival a Victorian factory. That is, until Helen put her foot down and forbade her godfather from using his pipe. Holmes complied, knowing that he truly had gone soft and thinking of how much she was like her father. He could very easily imagine Helen delivering a lecture on cocaine with every bit as much passion as John had.

* * *

><p>The years following the war were difficult for everyone. Sherlock Holmes had his own personal issues—in the mid-'20s, he discovered that he was developing lung cancer. John and Helen were adamant that he quit smoking; John was quitting, himself.<p>

It was torturous—in some ways, worse than cocaine withdrawal had ever been. Holmes even found himself subjected to some of the same symptoms. The worst part was when his fingers would stray to his pocket or to the mantel in search of tobacco that was not there. The Persian slipper remained, but it was empty. The pipe rack had disappeared, courtesy of Helen.

The Watsons tried to fill the void left in their menfolk's lives with more time spent together as a family. Silent movies, parks, games… anything to keep John's and Sherlock's minds off of what they were giving up.

Helen helped tremendously. Married for several years now to Lestrade's youngest boy, she had two children and one on the way. She regarded her children as having _three_ grandfathers: John Watson, Geoffrey Lestrade, and Sherlock Holmes. Not a week passed that Holmes did not visit his goddaughter and her family, and he was ever grateful for Helen's love and encouragement.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock Holmes died, it was not at a waterfall nor was it at the hands of any vengeful criminal. He died in his Helen's arms at the age of seventy-nine, his heart simply giving out. One doctor attributed it to long-term smoking finally catching up with him, but Helen knew the truth.<p>

Sherlock Holmes had lived the last few months of his life with a heart broken by his dearest friend's death. He was ready to go—he had told Helen as much. And Helen knew her father had received into his arms the best and wisest man he'd ever known.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'm not sure whether that last part really belongs to the overall story or not. *sighs* Well, I hope this works for the prompt, MrsP. It was kind of… not my normal style… hmm, dunno. *shrugs*

_**Please review!**_


	22. Day 29: The Warrior a Child

_Day 29 – prompt from Hades: Mrs Hudson also has bad dreams about Holmes's "death"._

**Note:** This was very different for me. But very good, as well. I'm trying very hard to distance myself from the popular idea that Mrs. Hudson was an elderly woman, as she is in most adaptations (such as the Rathbone flicks, Granada, and BBC's _Sherlock_). Thanks to one story of KCS's getting me thinking, I think that Mrs. Hudson was probably no more than ten years or so older than Watson. So let's say that she was about fifteen years older than Holmes; for the record, I _always_ write Holmes as having been born in _1858_ rather than _1854_ (I have good rationale for it, too). Thus, Mrs. Hudson would be forty-eight in 1891.

**Further Note:** The title for this story comes from an old song of Twila Paris'—"The Warrior Is a Child." I forget now what the song sounds like, but the lyrics make me think of a young Holmes. More on that at the end.

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><p><strong>==Day 29: The Warrior a Child==<strong>

She saw him that night, as she had seen him so many nights before.

He flashed her his famous not-quite-grin and tipped his cloth cap even as she called out his name. His once-boyish face was now grey and drawn and aged beyond his years—his grey eyes were bright but haunted with memories of great pain. Then he turned, as he always did, and strode away slowly, as if his back were bent by a burden almost greater than he could bear.

She watched as he climbed grassy hills and rocky heights, his invisible burden seeming to grow weightier with each step. Before long, he was nearly crawling rather than climbing, his hands and legs slipping far too often and collapsing him to the ground. He was torn, battered, bloodied, but still he pressed on.

He pressed on 'til he reached a vast waterfall. There, it was as if his burden rolled away, and he stood tall and unbowed, an erect silhouette against the rushing water like a monument of some great king. Eyes closed, he threw his head back and raised his hands to the sky as if returning to life and glorying in it.

Then came the dark figure. She could not make out its face—darkness seemed to go before it and surround it, a chill presence commanding fear.

The dark figure sprang at him, and he struggled in its hold. He had yet to regain his strength, had yet to recover, and so he was slower and weaker than his wont. A desperate anger burned in his eyes, and she saw his determination to see justice done, no matter the cost.

The dark figure lost its footing on the edge of the cliff, and it pulled him off with it. She saw the beloved grey eyes widen, saw the lips part to form a wordless cry. She saw them fall together, enemies in life, partners in death, limbs flailing as they fell with impossible slowness. Then they disappeared, together, into the mist rising from the lake at the bottom of the falls.

His cry rang in her ears as she jerked to wakefulness. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed—how long would she be tormented by these nightmares of her boy dying? She hadn't even seen him before he left for the Continent again; she'd never had the chance to say goodbye.

At least Dr. Watson had been with him up to the last few hours!

As she scrubbed her face clean of tears, she cast her mind back to the early days. Sherlock Holmes had indeed been the worst lodger in London, and Dr. Watson had been the darling of the pair. But, much as she adored the dear doctor, it was the younger, more difficult of her lodgers that had stolen her heart.

Denied the ability to bear children and deprived of a husband, her longing for motherhood had been fulfilled, in part, by a strange man-child with large, bright eyes. She had seen past the dazzling intellect, the kinglike authority, the childish callousness … she'd looked past it all and seen a soul starved for affection, not unlike a lost little boy.

So she'd given him all the affection she could.

Oh, there'd been times—many times—that she could cheerfully have walloped him in the broomstick, but nothing he could have done could ever have made her stop loving him. Under the doctor's open friendship and her more subtle affection, the young detective's spirit slowly but surely blossomed. She'd watched his relationship with Mary Watson change from one of near-resentment to open, brotherly regard. In the past two years, he had grown into a man of whom she could be truly proud, a man who used both his head and his heart.

In many ways, he was the son that she could never have.

And, oh, how terribly she missed her boy.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Wow, that was terrific. I loved writing that! Thank you so much for that prompt, Hades! I think I'm going to work on Mrs. Hudson's character development for _Mortality_ now, even if she doesn't get much screentime. I'd like to show that I have her character a little more figured out than Doyle did. ;D

Okay, young Holmes. If you've read some of my other stuff, you might have seen me call Holmes a young man all the way up to Reichenbach in 1891. You might have even seen Moriarty think of Holmes as being a boy. Well, as I said above, I write Holmes as having been born in 1858; this means that he would've been 23 when he met Watson in 1881 (not even quite that, yet) and 33 when the events of FINA occurred. So he's still fairly young (don't forget that Watson called Stanley Hopkins, at the age of 30, a young man). To Mycroft, Sherlock will always be young; to Mrs. Hudson, the same; to Moriarty… well, he was watching Sherlock's career (in my universe) from its inception. So to the 60s-something Professor, the Great Detective _is_ a boy.

Anyway, I loved writing the dream. I love seeing Sherlock Holmes as a kind of medieval mythical figure returned to life and a more modern time, and that's a take that I almost never get to use. I was thinking of Christian from _Pilgrim's Progress _at the beginning of the dream, and I was actually thinking of Aragorn from _Lord of the Rings_ afterwards.

And do you know what? When it comes to people railing against the unfairness of a young Holmes against a twice-his-age Moriarty, I will defend Holmes's honor to the teeth. If we get right down to it, Watson said that Holmes wasn't looking well when he showed up in Watson's house, and Holmes admitted that he had been using himself up rather freely of late! Sherlock Holmes was obviously _not_ in peak condition. And, though Moriarty was a former mathematics professor, we don't—and can't—know just how much he knew about one-on-one combat, and whether or not he was capable of it. Furthermore, he was _hell_-bent on _destroying_ Sherlock Holmes—we can probably list obsession, vengeance, and desperation as powerful emotions fueling him on in the fight above Reichenbach. When all's said and done, I think it was an equal match.

Okay, well! This A/N is about two-thirds of the length of the story itself, so I'll shut up now! =)

_**Please review!**_


	23. Day 30: Through the Fire

_Day 30 – prompt from Scarper Gallywest: On the Origins of Miss Katherine Winter, called Kitty._

**Note:** Another piece not in my norm. And the last part is actually longer than all the rest put together! But I still liked doing this, difficult though it was. ILLU is one of my favorite Granada episodes, and they turned Kitty into a girl you can pity and like.

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><p><strong>==Day 30: Through the Fire==<strong>

I never knew my father. My mother was an actress, and theatre was all I knew, growing up. I styled my mum's hair, applied her stage makeup, helped her with her costumes. She, in return, showered me with affection.

I loved Mum, but… with all the fire in my soul, I wished I could have had the chance to love my father, as well.

* * *

><p>I loved to learn. I taught myself more by reading books than any of my tutors ever did, my eager young mind absorbing all that I read. Chemistry held my fancy for a while, and Mum had to forbid me from "experimenting" with the makeup. But what truly captured my imagination was the Italian Renaissance, the romance of the period, the gorgeous art of imaginative souls.<p>

Female artists were a rare breed, but I was determined to make my way into the art world somehow.

* * *

><p>I was sixteen when I found work at an art studio. One of the artists had gushed over me, decreeing me to be a perfect model. I was proud to bring home my own wages, though I longed to sketch and paint as the men did.<p>

But female artists were a rare breed.

* * *

><p>Eventually, I gave up the studio. Being surrounded by the tools of the trade and unable to do so much as <em>touch<em> them tortured me. I had a voice flexible enough to pitch both soprano and contralto, and I decided to use it.

It was during my successful tenure as a singer that I met him.

* * *

><p>He was much older than I, but ever so charming and gentlemanly. No man had ever treated me as a lady before, and this man did. I was soon visiting his home… and his bedchambers.<p>

I would later curse the day we first set eyes upon each other.

* * *

><p>I fled the beautiful house, weeping bitter, angry tears but taking care that the saltwater did not run down to touch my marred skin. I was disfigured now, still fair of face and form but bearing a large swath of acid-eaten skin. I knew I would lose my job, and I had no conception of where I would go next.<p>

I vowed then that my once-loved baron would pay.

* * *

><p>This man was different. He was a gentleman and he acted it, but he was different all the same. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Of course I'd heard of him—who hadn't? I'd spent my girlhood with <em>The Strand<em>. But where the doctor's hazel eyes held curiosity, _his_ large grey eyes held compassion. Somehow, he knew; given his reputation, I supposed I shouldn't be surprised.

I still wanted revenge, but… after beholding those keen grey eyes, my heart wanted something more.

* * *

><p>The deed was done. I'd flung the acid at my former lover, revenging myself and ensuring that the world would at last see this man for the monster he was. But before I fled, my green eyes met a pair of tired grey ones.<p>

Those eyes bore understanding and utterly no condemnation. I fled.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Hyde's Park, 1915<strong>_

I closed my eyes and inhaled my first true breath of spring. Winter had been long and hard, and it seemed that all of Europe must have been longing for the warmth of spring. After several terrible months of war with no end in sight, the world needed some cheer, fleeting though it might be.

My eyes flew open as a small body hurled into my legs, collapsing me to the grass. "Sorry, ma'am!" a small voice piped. I looked up to see a contrite little girl with hair nearly as red as my own.

"Maureen, do watch where you're running!" a boy's voice chided. The owner ran up into view, and I could have sworn that he looked familiar.

"There now, no harm done," I smiled, pushing myself back onto my feet. "But be more careful next time, love," I added to the little girl.

My own daughter, Laura, came running up. "Mum, are you all right?"

I laughed. "I'm fine, dear. Laura, meet my little attacker, Maureen." Maureen looked as though she were only a year or two younger than eight-year-old Laura.

The two were soon chatting, and Maureen's brother watching with a resigned air. "Surely you don't come here alone," I said aside to him.

"Oh, no. Our uncle is here with us—somewhere." The boy grinned. "Well, I say 'uncle,' but he's really our godfather."

I smiled again. "Do you know, I would say you remind me of someone, but I can't say who it might be?"

The boy's grin grew wider, his cheeks dimpling and his hazel eyes sparkling. "People do say that about me," he confided conspiratorially. Despite my confusion, I had to laugh—he was a little charmer and no mistake.

"Hamish, Maureen?"

I froze. I knew that voice, though it had been thirteen years since last I heard it.

Throwing me another mirthful glance, the boy lifted his head and called, "Over here, Uncle!"

A tall figure came into sight from around a high cluster of blossoming bushes. "Ah!" He lifted his walking stick in salute as he strode our way.

I could not believe my eyes. Sherlock Holmes.

Maureen and Laura paid him no heed, but Hamish's eyes darted back and forth impishly between me and the Great Detective. Of course. No wonder the boy looked familiar; he was the son of Dr. John Watson.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," I breathed, having regained enough composure to manage speech.

"Miss W—I suppose I must not say that," he corrected himself, glancing significantly at my wedding band. His grey eyes were surprised but pleased. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." I managed a smile next, and nodded at Laura. "My daughter, Laura."

He glanced at Laura and Maureen, still talking, and shrugged. "She appears to be engage at the moment." His face was quite impassive, but those grey eyes danced—then grew solemn as he turned to face me fully. "Life seems to have treated you well," he said quietly.

I realised that Hamish had slipped off without my noticing, and nodded at the observation. "I found me a good man," I murmured. "Laura came along a year later, and…" I heaved a sigh, feeling a small, familiar ache in my chest. "He left with Kitchener's Army."

His expression grew pensive. "As did the good Doctor."

"I'm sorry." The words themselves were empty, but he understood.

He seemed to pull his mind away from the Western Front long enough to manage a small smile. "Even so, I am glad that you found happiness… Kitty."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I like WWI as a setting for Holmes stories, could you tell? ^_^ And I was so very much thinking of Jeremy Brett's older!Holmes as I wrote this—that is, his performance in ILLU very much provided a basis for writing Holmes in this story. I think it was one of his best performances—Holmes really shines as, well, a knight in shining armor, in every scene. And the interaction between Holmes and Kitty is wonderful; you could have seen he respects her even if he hadn't told Watson as much.

I HATE IT THAT TOMORROW'S THE FINAL DAY OF THIS WHOLE CHALLENGE! I want it to continue, and I wish I could have seen more of my own prompts filled (I think I need just one hand to count how many I've seen), and I wish that others who have provided prompts could also have filled them. Well, if we as a group don't do another advent challenge next Christmas, I'll just use my own prompt list and fill it out day by day. As it is, I will be turning this collection into another ebook, probably with the same title or close to it—the catch is that I might wait 'til next November to publish it. Maybe. Keep an eye on my blog (www dot studysherlockiana dot blogspot dot com) for future info!

_**Please review!**_


	24. New Year's Eve: Tradition

_New Year's Eve – prompt from MyelleWhite: NEW YEARS KISS!_

**Note:** This is a sequel of sorts to "Helpmeet," with more Mary!mischief. ^_^

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><p><strong>==New Year's Eve: Tradition==<strong>

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mary?"

In lieu of a reply, Mary held up a sprig of…

"Mistletoe." Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow, instantly on his guard. "Mary, Christmas was a week ago."

"Yes, and it was rather an unforgettable one," Mary said dryly. Sherlock had the grace to blush. "But this is not for Christmas," she continued. "Didn't you know that it is traditional for mistletoe to be used between friends on New Year's Eve?"

The other eyebrow joined the first. "No, I did not." Perhaps he should consider storing holiday customs in his brain attic, after all, if Mary was to insist upon following them…

"Well…"

"Well?"

Mary was giving him her very best "exasperated teacher" expression. She lifted the mistletoe above her head and cleared her throat. Oh, was she really going to insist upon… She gave him a hopeful look. Yes, she was.

Five-foot-three with enormous blue eyes. Watson hadn't stood a chance.

"Very well," Holmes sighed, striding forward and placing a brotherly kiss upon Mary's lips.

"…Holmes? Mary?"

At the sound of his friend's voice, Holmes shot straight up and whirled about to face the man. "Watson!"

The doctor looked perplexed. "What on earth were you two doing?"

Holmes belatedly realized that Mary had slipped away. "Your lovely wife had talked me into fulfilling a New Year's tradition," he explained, making a mental note to pay Mary back later for abandoning him to her husband. Nothing serious, of course—just mildly annoying.

Watson's perplexed expression grew—what on earth was the matter? "With… mistletoe?"

An uncomfortable feeling formed in Holmes's stomach. "Yes."

The hazel eyes widened, and Watson assumed that deadpan expression that Holmes knew from long experience meant his friend was struggling not to laugh. That uncomfortable feeling expanded exponentially. "Holmes. Mistletoe has absolutely nothing to do with celebrating the New Year—it is a tradition for Christmastime only."

Holmes felt his face go slack even as his cheeks burned. Watson lost control completely and staggered backwards, making undignified sounds somewhere between laughter and _giggles_.

She'd tricked him. Mary Watson had _tricked_ Sherlock Holmes.

Watson continued to spasm with hilarity. "I suppose you'll have to say now that you've been bested by three men and _two_ women!" he managed to gasp out.

Holmes responded in the only manner he could—by lobbing a pillow at his insufferable friend's face. Watson ducked and fell onto his settee, still caught in that obnoxious mixture of laughter and giggles. Holmes growled.

"Watson! Pull yourself together, man!"

Watson merely clutched at his sides and started to choke slightly on his mirth. Served him right.

Well, Holmes was not going to stand for this. No, sir—he was not to be bested by a five-foot-three former governess. It was time that Mary Watson discovered to what lengths Sherlock Holmes could take a prank. He withdrew his black clay pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. This was a matter worthy of his oldest and trustiest pipe.

And, with any luck, it would be fun.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Watch out, Mary! Sherlock is on the warpath! *snickers uncontrollably* I can just _see_ these two going at it just like a normal brother and sister—with poor Watson in the crossfire. xDDDD

Well, this has been one terrific and unforgettable journey! With Holmes & Co., with my fellow writers, and with you, dear readers. Thank you everyone for your praise, your encouragement, and your support—it has meant a lot to me. I wish I could have been doing review replies with each new update like I normally do, but that would just have been too much for me to handle.

Don't forget: I fully intend to do some sort of advent calendar collection next Christmas, and I will be publishing this collection (with added pieces to make up a full month) sometime in the future. You can stay updated on my blog (click from profile), which I will finally be getting back to this winter.

Now for an ANNOUNCEMENT: _Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality_ will receive an UPDATE. Tomorrow. Yes, I'm finally going to be updating _Mortality_, though much more slowly than I used to. Please check it out!

_**Again, thank you all, and may God bless you in this new Year of Our Lord 2012!**_


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